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THE MODERN LIBRARY 

OF THE WORLD'S BEST BOOKS 


BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 


THE MODERN LIBRARY 


OF THE WORLD’S BEST BOOKS 


OSCAR WILDE 
Picture of Dorian Gray 

STRINDBERG 

Married 

KIPLING 
Soldiers Three 

STEVENSON 
Treasure Island 

H. G. WELLS 
The War in the Air 

IBSEN 

A Doll’s House and 
Others 

ANATOLE FRANCE 
The Red Lily 

DE MAUPASSANT 
Mile. Fifi and Others 

NIETZSCHE 


DOSTOYEVSKY 
Poor People 
MAETERLINCK 
A Miracle of St. An¬ 
tony and Others 

SCHOPENHAUER 
Studies in Pessimism 
SAMUEL BUTLER 
The Way of All Flesh 
GEORGE MEREDITH 
Diana of the Crossways 
G. B. SHAW 
An Unsocial Socialist 
GEO. MOORE 
Confessions of a Young 
Man 

THOMAS HARDY 
The Mayor of Caster- 
bridge 

BEST RUSSIAN 
SHORT STORIES 


Thus Spake ZarathuS' 
tra 


Otheb Titles in Pbepabation 




























































































ANTON P. CHEKHOV 

Russia’s Greatest Short-Story Writer 

































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































1 / BEST 

RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 


COMPILED AND EDITED 

By THOMAS SELTZER 

ll 


|^| 


BONI AND LIVERIGHT, INC. 



PUBLISHERS ’. NEW YORK 














Printed in the 
United States of America 



COPYRIGHT, 1917, 

BY BONI AND LIVERIGHT, INC. 



JUL 20 !9!7 


©Cl. A 4679 83 ft 

"V'U'O 

i. 


L VI 


INTRODUCTION 


C ONCEIVE the joy of a lover of nature who, leaving 
the art galleries, wanders out among the trees and wild 
flowers and birds that the pictures of the galleries have sen¬ 
timentalised. It is some such joy that the man who 
truly loves the noblest in letters feels when tasting for the 
first time the simple delights of Russian literature. French 
and English and German authors, too, occasionally, offer 
works of lofty, simple naturalness; but the very keynote to 
the whole of Russian literature is simplicity, naturalness, 
veraciousness. 

Another essentially Russian trait is the quite unaffected 
conception that the lowly are on a plane of equality with 
the so-called upper classes. When the Englishman Dickens 
wrote with his profound pity and understanding of the poor, 
there was yet a bit of remoteness, perhaps, even, a bit of car¬ 
icature, in his treatment of them. He showed their sufferings 
to the rest of the world with a “Behold how the other half 
lives!” The Russian writes of the poor, as it were, from 
within, as one of them, with no eye to theatrical effect 
upon the well-to-do. There is no insistence upon peculiar 
virtues or vices. The poor are portrayed just as they are, 
as human beings like the rest of us. A democratic spirit is 
reflected, breathing a broad humanity, a true universality, 
an unstudied generosity that proceed not from the intel¬ 
lectual conviction that to understand all is to forgive all, 
^but from an instinctive feeling that no man has the right to 
-set himself up as a judge over another, that one can only 


observe and record. 

In 1834 two short stories appeared, The Queen of Spades , 
by Pushkin, and The Cloak , by Gogol. The first was a fin¬ 
ishing-off of the old, outgoing style of romanticism, the other 
was the beginning of the new, the characteristically Russian 
style. We read Pushkin’s Queen of Spades , the first story 
in the volume, and the likelihood is we shall enjoy it greatly. 


Vlll 


INTRODUCTION 


“But why is it Russian?” we ask. The answer is, “It is 
not Russian.” It might have been printed in an American 
magazine over the name of John Brown. But, now, take 
the very next story in the volume, The Cloak. “Ah,” you 
exclaim, “a genuine Russian story, surely. You cannot palm 
it off on me over the name of Jones or Smith.” Why? Be¬ 
cause The Cloak for the first time strikes that truly Russian 
note of deep sympathy with the disinherited. It is not yet 
wholly free from artificiality, and so is not yet typical of the 
purely realistic fiction that reached its perfected develop¬ 
ment in Turgenev and Tolstoy. 

Though Pushkin heads the list of those writers who made 
the literature of their country world-famous, he was still 
a romanticist, in the universal literary fashion of his day. 
However, he already gave strong indication of the peculiarly 
Russian genius for naturalness or realism, and was a true 
Russian in his simplicity of style. In no sense an in¬ 
novator, but taking the cue for his poetry from Byron and 
for his prose from the romanticism current at that period, 
he was not in advance of his age. He had a revolutionary 
streak in his nature, as his Ode to Liberty and other bits 
of verse and his intimacy with the Decembrist rebels show. 
But his youthful fire soon died down, and he found it pos¬ 
sible to accommodate himself to the life of a Russian high 
functionary and courtier under the severe despot Nicholas 
I, though, to be sure, he always hated that life. For all 
his flirting with revolutionarism, he never displayed great 
originality or depth of thought. He was simply an extraor¬ 
dinarily gifted author, a perfect versifier, a wondrous lyrist, 
and a delicious raconteur, endowed with a grace, ease and 
power of expression that delighted even the exacting artistic 
sense of Turgenev. To him aptly applies the dictum of 
Socrates: “Not by wisdom do the poets write poetry, but 
by a sort of genius and inspiration.” I do not mean to con¬ 
vey that as a thinker Pushkin is to be despised. Neverthe¬ 
less, it is true that he would occupy a lower position in 
literature did his reputation depend upon his contributions 
to thought and not upon his value as an artist. 

“We are all descended from Gogol’s Cloak” said a Rus- 
„ sian writer. And Dostoyevsky’s novel, Poor People, which 


INTRODUCTION 


ix 


appeared ten years later, is, in a way, merely an extension 
of Gogol’s shorter tale. In Dostoyevsky, indeed, the pas¬ 
sion for the common people and the all-embracing, all-pene¬ 
trating pity for suffering humanity reach their climax. He 
was a profound psychologist and delved deeply into the hu¬ 
man soul, especially in its abnormal and diseased aspects. 
Between scenes of heart-rending, abject poverty, injustice, 
and wrong, and the torments of mental pathology, he man¬ 
aged almost to exhaust the whole range of human woe. And 
he analysed this misery with an intensity of feeling and a 
painstaking regard for the most harrowing details that are 
quite upsetting to normally constituted nerves. Yet all the 
horrors must be forgiven him because of the motive inspir¬ 
ing them—an overpowering love and the desire to induce an 
equal love in others. It is not horror for horror’s sake, not 
a literary tour de force , as in Poe, but horror for a high 
purpose, for purification through suffering, which was one 
of the articles of Dostoyevsky’s faith. 

Following as a corollary from the love and pity for man¬ 
kind that make a leading element in Russian literature, is a 
passionate search for the means of improving the lot of 
humanity, a fervent attachment to social ideas and ideals. 
A Russian author is more ardently devoted to a cause than 
an American short-story writer to a plot. This, in turn, is 
but a reflection of the spirit of the Russian people, especially 
of the intellectuals. The Russians take literature perhaps 
more seriously than any other nation. To them books are 
not a mere diversion. They demand that fiction and poetry 
he a true mirror of life and be of service to life. A Rus¬ 
sian author, to achieve the highest recognition, must be a 
thinker also. He need not necessarily be a finished artist. 
Everything is subordinated to two main requirements—hu¬ 
manitarian ideals and fidelity to life. This is the secret of 
the marvellous simplicity of Russian literary art. Before 
the supreme function of literature, the Russian writer stands 
awed and humbled. He knows he cannot cover up poverty 
of thought, poverty of spirit and lack of sincerity by rhe¬ 
torical tricks or verbal cleverness. And if he possesses the 
two essential requirements, the simplest language will suf¬ 
fice. 


X 


INTRODUCTION 


These qualities are exemplified at their best by Turgenev 
and Tolstoy. They both had a strong social consciousness; 
they both grappled with the problems of human welfare; 
they were both artists in the larger sense, that is, in their 
truthful representation of life. Turgenev was an artist also 
in the narrower sense—in a keen appreciation of form. 
Thoroughly Occidental in his tastes, he sought the regen¬ 
eration of Russia in radical progress along the lines of Euro¬ 
pean democracy. Tolstoy, on the other hand, sought the 
salvation of mankind in a return to the primitive life and 
primitive Christian religion. 

The very first work of importance by Turgenev, A Sports¬ 
man’s Sketches, dealt with the question of serfdom, and it 
wielded tremendous influence in bringing about its abolition. 
Almost every succeeding book of his, from Rudin through 
Fathers and Sons to Virgin Soil, presented vivid pictures of 
contemporary Russian society, with its problems, the clash 
of ideas between the old and the new generations, and the 
struggles, the aspirations and the thoughts that engrossed 
the advanced youth of Russia; so that his collected works 
form a remarkable literary record of the successive move¬ 
ments of Russian society in a period of preparation, fraught 
with epochal significance, which culminated in the overthrow 
of Czarism and the inauguration of a new and true de¬ 
mocracy, marking the beginning, perhaps, of a radical trans¬ 
formation the world over. 

“The greatest writer of Russia.” That is Turgenev’s es¬ 
timate of Tolstoy. “A second Shakespeare!” was Flaubert’s 
enthusiastic outburst. The Frenchman’s comparison is not 
wholly illuminating. The one point of resemblance between 
the two authors is simply in the tremendous magnitude of 
their genius. Each is a Colossus. Each creates a whole 
world of characters, from kings and princes and ladies to 
servants and maids and peasants. But how vastly divergent 
the angle of approach! Anna Karenina may have all the 
subtle womanly charm of an Olivia or a Portia, but how 
different her trials. Shakespeare could not have treated 
Anna’s problems at all. Anna could not have appeared 
in his pages except as a sinning Gertrude, the mother of 
Hamlet. Shakespeare had all the prejudices of his age. 


INTRODUCTION 


xi 


He accepted the world as it is with its absurd moralities, 
its conventions and institutions and social classes. A grave¬ 
digger is naturally inferior to a lord, and if he is to be pre¬ 
sented at all, he must come on as a clown. The people are al¬ 
ways a mob, the rabble. Tolstoy is the revolutionist, the icon¬ 
oclast. He has the completest independence of mind. He 
utterly refuses to accept established opinions just because 
they are established. He probes into the right and wrong 
of things. His is a broad, generous universal democracy, his 
is a comprehensive sympathy, his an absolute incapacity to 
evaluate human beings according to station, rank or profes¬ 
sion, or any standard but that of spiritual worth. In all 
this he was a complete contrast to Shakespeare. Each of 
the two men was like a creature of a higher world, possessed 
of supernatural endowments. Their omniscience of all things 
human, their insight into the hiddenmost springs of men’s 
actions appear miraculous. But Shakespeare makes the im¬ 
pression of detachment from his works. The works do not 
reveal the man; while in Tolstoy the greatness of the man 
blends with the greatness of the genius. Tolstoy was no 
mere oracle uttering profundities he wot not of. As the 
social, religious and moral tracts that he wrote in the latter 
period of his life are instinct with a literary beauty of which 
he never could divest himself, and which gave an artistic 
value even to his sermons, so his earlier novels show a 
profound concern for the welfare of society, a broad, hu¬ 
manitarian spirit, a bigness of soul that included prince and 
pauper alike. 

Is this extravagant praise? Then let me echo William 
Dean Howells: “I know very well that I do not speak of 
Tolstoy’s books in measured terms; I cannot.” 

The Russian writers so far considered have made valu¬ 
able contributions to the short story; but, with the exception 
of Pushkin, whose reputation rests chiefly upon his poetry, 
their best work, generally, was in the field of the long novel. 
It was the novel that gave Russian literature its pre-emi¬ 
nence. It could not have been otherwise, since Russia is 
young as a literary nation, and did not come of age until the 
period at which the novel was almost the only form of 
literature that counted. If, therefore, Russia was to gain 


xii 


INTRODUCTION 


distinction in the world of letters, it could be only through 
the novel. Of the measure of her success there is perhaps 
no better testimony than the words of Matthew Arnold, 
a critic certainly not given to overstatement. “The Rus¬ 
sian novel,” he wrote in 1887, “has now the vogue, and 
deserves to have it. . . . The Russian novelist is master of 
a spell to which the secret of human nature—both what is 
external and internal, gesture and manner no less than 
thought and feeling—willingly make themselves known. . . . 
In that form of imaginative literature, which in our day is 
the most popular and the most possible, the Russians at the 
present moment seem to me to hold the field.” 

With the strict censorship imposed on Russian writers, 
many of them who might perhaps have contented themselves 
with expressing their opinions in essays, were driven to con¬ 
ceal their meaning under the guise of satire or allegory; 
which gave rise to a peculiar genre of literature, a sort of 
editorial or essay done into fiction, in which the satirist 
Saltykov, a contemporary of Turgenev and Dostoyevsky, 
who wrote under the pseudonym of Shchedrin, achieved the 
greatest success and popularity. 

It was not, however, until the concluding quarter of the 
last century that writers like Korolenko and Garshin 
arose, who devoted themselves chiefly to the cultivation of 
the short story. With Anton Chekhov the short story as¬ 
sumed a position of importance alongside the larger works 
of the great Russian masters. Gorky and Andreyev made 
the short story do the same service for the active revolution¬ 
ary period in the last decade of the nineteenth century 
down to its temporary defeat in 1906 that Turgenev ren¬ 
dered in his series of larger novels for the period of prepa¬ 
ration. But very different was the voice of Gorky, the man 
sprung from the people, the embodiment of all the accumu¬ 
lated wrath and indignation of centuries of social wrong and 
oppression, from the gentlemanly tones of the cultured artist 
Turgenev. Like a mighty hammer his blows fell upon the 
decaying fabric of the old sociefy. His was no longer a 
feeble, despairing protest. With the strength and confi¬ 
dence of victory he made onslaught upon onslaught on the 
old institutions until they shook and almost tumbled. And 


INTRODUCTION 


xiii 


when reaction celebrated its short-lived triumph and gloom 
settled again upon his country and most of his co-fighters 
withdrew from the battle in despair, some returning to the 
old-time Russian mood of hopelessness, passivity and apathy, 
and some even backsliding into wild orgies of literary de¬ 
bauchery, Gorky never wavered, never lost his faith and 
hope, never for a moment was untrue to his principles. 
Now, with the revolution victorious, he has come into his 
right, one of the most respected, beloved and picturesque 
figures in the Russian democracy. 

Kuprin, the most facile and talented short-story writer 
next to Chekhov, has, on the whole, kept well to the best 
literary traditions of Russia, though he has frequently wan¬ 
dered off to extravagant sex themes, for which he seems to 
display as great a fondness as Artzybashev. Semyonov is a 
unique character in Russian literature, a peasant who had 
scarcely mastered the most elementary mechanics of writing 
when he penned his first story. But that story pleased Tol¬ 
stoy, who befriended and encouraged him. His tales deal 
altogether with peasant life in country and city, and have a 
lifelikeness, an artlessness, a simplicity striking even in a 
Russian author. 

There is a small group of writers detached from the main 
current of Russian literature who worship at the shrine of 
beauty and mysticism. Of these Sologub has attained the 
highest reputation. 

Rich as Russia has become in the short story, Anton 
Chekhov still stands out as the supreme master, one of the 
greatest short-story writers of the world. He was born in 
Taganarok, in the Ukraine, in i860, the son of a 
peasant serf who succeeded in buying his freedom. Anton 
Chekhov studied medicine, but devoted himself largely to 
writing, in which, he acknowledged, his scientific train¬ 
ing was of great service. Though he lived only forty- 
four years, dying of tuberculosis in 1904, his collected works 
consist of sixteen fair-sized volumes of short stories, and 
several dramas besides. A few volumes of his works have 
already appeared in English translation. 

Critics, among them Tolstoy, have often compared Chek¬ 
hov to Maupassant. I find it hard to discover the resem- 


xiv 


INTRODUCTION 


blance. Maupassant holds a supreme position as a short- 
story writer; so does Chekhov. But there, it seems to me, 
the likeness ends. 

The chill wind that blows from the atmosphere created 
by the Frenchman’s objective artistry is by the Russian 
commingled with the warm breath of a great human sym¬ 
pathy. Maupassant never tells where his sympathies lie, 
and you don’t know; you only guess. Chekhov does not 
tell you where his sympathies lie, either, but you know all 
the same; you don’t have to guess. And yet Chekhov is 
as objective as Maupassant. In the chronicling of facts, 
conditions, and situations, in the reproduction of characters, 
he is scrupulously true, hard, and inexorable. But without 
obtruding his personality, he somehow manages to let you 
know that he is always present, always at hand. If you 
laugh, he is there to laugh with you; if you cry, he is 
there to shed a tear with you; if you are horrified, he is hor¬ 
rified, too. It is a subtle art by which he contrives to make 
one feel the nearness of himself for all his objectiveness, so 
subtle that it defies analysis. And yet it constitutes one of 
the great charms of his tales. 

Chekhov’s works show an astounding resourcefulness and 
versatility. There is no monotony, no repetition. Neither 
in incident nor in character are any two stories alike. The 
range of Chekhov’s knowledge of men and things seems to 
be unlimited, and he is extravagant in the use of it. Some 
great idea which many a writer would consider sufficient to 
expand into a whole novel he disposes of in a story of a 
few pages. Take, for example, Vanka, apparently but a 
mere episode in the childhood of a nine-year-old boy, while 
it is really the tragedy of a whole life in its tempting 
glimpses into a past environment and ominous forebodings 
of the future—all contracted into the space of four or five 
pages. Chekhov is lavish with his inventiveness. Appar¬ 
ently, it cost him no effort to invent. 

I have used the word inventiveness for lack of a better 
name. It expresses but lamely the peculiar faculty that dis¬ 
tinguishes Chekhov. Chekhov does not really invent. He 
reveals. He reveals things that no author before him has 
revealed. It is as though he possessed a special organ which 


INTRODUCTION 


xv 


enabled him to see, hear and feel things of which we other 
mortals did not even dream the existence. Yet when he 
lays them bare we know that they are not fictitious, not 
invented, but as real as the ordinary familiar facts of life. 
This faculty of his playing on all conceivable objects, all 
conceivable emotions, no matter how microscopic, endows 
them with life and a soul. By virtue of this power The 
Steppe y an uneventful record of peasants travelling day after 
day through flat, monotonous fields, becomes instinct with 
dramatic interest, and its 125 pages seem all too short. And 
by virtue of the same attribute we follow with breathless 
suspense the minute description of the declining days of a 
great scientist, who feels his physical and mental faculties 
gradually ebbing away. A Tiresome Story , Chekhov calls it; 
and so it would be without the vitality conjured into it by 
the magic touch of this strange genius. 

Divination is perhaps a better term than invention. Chek¬ 
hov divines the most secret impulses of the soul, scents out 
what is buried in the subconscious, and brings it up to the 
surface. Most writers are specialists. They know certain 
strata of society, and when they venture beyond, their step 
becomes uncertain. Chekhov’s material is only delimited by 
humanity. He is equally at home everywhere. The peas¬ 
ant, the labourer, the merchant, the priest, the professional 
man, the scholar, the military officer, and the government 
functionary, Gentile or Jew, man, woman, or child—Chek¬ 
hov is intimate with all of them. His characters are sharply 
defined individuals, not types. In almost all his stories, 
however short, the men and women and children who play 
a part in them come out as clear, distinct personalities. 
Ariadne is as vivid a character as Lilly, the heroine of Suder- 
mann’s Song oj Songs; yet Ariadne is but a single story in a 
volume of stories. Who that has read The Darling can ever 
forget her—the woman who had no separate existence of her 
own, but thought the thoughts, felt the feelings, and spoke 
the words of the men she loved? And when there was no 
man to love any more, she was utterly crushed until she 
found a child to take care of and to love; and then she 
sank her personality in the boy as she had sunk it before 


XVI 


INTRODUCTION 


in her husbands and lover, became a mere reflection of him, 
and was happy again. 

In the compilation of this volume I have been guided by 
the desire to give the largest possible representation to the 
prominent authors of the Russian short story, and to present 
specimens characteristic of each. At the same time the ele¬ 
ment of interest has been kept in mind; and in a few in¬ 
stances, as in the case of Korolenko, the selection of the 
story was made with a view to its intrinsic merit and strik¬ 
ing qualities rather than as typifying the writer’s art. It 
was, of course, impossible in the space of one book to exhaust 
all that is best. But to my knowledge, the present volume 
is the most comprehensive anthology of the Russian short 
story in the English language, and gives a fair notion of the 
achievement in that field. All who enjoy good reading, I 
have no reason to doubt, will get pleasure from it, and 
if, in addition, it will prove of assistance to American stu¬ 
dents of Russian literature, I shall feel that the task has 
been doubly worth the while. 

Korolenko’s Shades and Andreyev’s Lazarus first appeared 
in Current Opinion, and Artzybashev’s The Revolutionist in 
the Metropolitan Magazine. I take pleasure in thanking 
Mr. Edward J. Wheeler, editor of Current Opinion, and Mr. 
Carl Hovey, editor of the Metropolitan Magazine, for per¬ 
mission to reprint them. 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 


The Queen of Spades . i 

The Cloak.29 

The District Doctor.61 


The Christmas Tree and the Wedding .... 71 

God Sees the Truth, but Waits.79 

How A Muzhik Fed Two Officials.88 


The Shades, A Phantasy.97 

The Signal.124 

The Darling.134 

The Bet. 147 

Vanka.155 

Hide and Seek.160 

Dethroned.172 

The Servant.192 

One Autumn Night.199 

Her Lover .209 

Lazarus.215 

The Revolutionist.235 

The Outrage — A Love Story.245 



















BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 



“Everything is subordinated to two main requirements— 
humanitarian ideals and fidelity to life. This is the secret 
of the marvellous simplicity of Russian literary art.” 

Thomas Seltzer. 


BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 


THE QUEEN OF SPADES 


By Aleksander S. Pushkin 


I 


HERE was a card party at the rooms of Narumov of 



i the Horse Guards. The long winter night passed 
away imperceptibly, and it was five o’clock in the morning 
before the company sat down to supper. Those who had 
won, ate with a good appetite; the others sat staring ab¬ 
sently at their empty plates. When the champagne ap¬ 
peared, however, the conversation became more animated, 
and all took a part in it. 

“And how did you fare, Surin?” asked the host. 

“Oh, I lost, as usual. I must confess that I am unlucky: 
I play mirandole, I always keep cool, I never allow any¬ 
thing to put me out, and yet I always lose I” 

“And you did not once allow yourself to be tempted to 
back the red? . . . Your firmness astonishes me.” 

“But what do you think of Hermann?” said one of the 
guests, pointing to a young Engineer: “he has never had a 
card in his hand in his life, he has never in his life laid a 
wager, and yet he sits here till five o’clock in the morning 
watching our play.” 

“Play interests me very much,” said Hermann: “but I 
am not in the position to sacrifice the necessary in the hope 
of winning the superfluous.” 

“Hermann is a German: he is economical—that is all!” 
observed Tomsky. “But if there is one person that I can¬ 
not understand, it is my grandmother, the Countess Anna 
Fedotovna.” 

“How so?” inquired the guests. 


i 


2 


BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 


“I cannot understand,” continued Tomsky, “how it is 
that my grandmother does not punt.” 

“What is there remarkable about an old lady of eighty 
not punting?” said Narumov. 

“Then you do not know the reason why?” 

“No, really; haven’t the faintest idea.” 

“Oh! then listen. About sixty years ago, my grand¬ 
mother went to Paris, where she created quite a sen¬ 
sation. People used to run after her to catch a glimpse 
of the ‘Muscovite Venus.’ Richelieu made love to her, and 
my grandmother maintains that he almost blew out his 
brains in consequence of her cruelty. At that time ladies 
used to play at faro. On one occasion at the Court, she lost 
a very considerable sum to the Duke of Orleans. On re¬ 
turning home, my grandmother removed the patches from 
her face, took off her hoops, informed my grandfather of her 
loss at the gaming-table, and ordered him to pay the money. 
My deceased grandfather, as far as I remember, was a sort 
of house-steward to my grandmother. He dreaded her like 
fire; but, on hearing of such a heavy loss, he almost went 
out of his mind; he calculated the various sums she had 
lost, and pointed out to her that in six months she had 
spent half a million francs, that neither their Moscow nor 
Saratov estates were in Paris, and finally refused point blank 
to pay the debt. My grandmother gave him a box on the 
ear and slept by herself as a sign of her displeasure. The 
next day she sent for her husband, hoping that this domestic 
punishment had produced an effect upon him, but she found 
him inflexible. For the first time in her life, she entered 
into reasonings and explanations with him, thinking to be 
able to convince him by pointing out to him that there are 
debts and debts, and that there is a great difference between 
a Prince and a coachmaker. But it was all in vain, my 
grandfather still remained obdurate. But the matter did not 
rest there. My grandmother did not know what to do. She 
had shortly before become acquainted with a very remark¬ 
able man. You have heard of Count St. Germain, about 
whom so many marvellous stories are told. You know that 
he represented himself as the Wandering Jew, as the dis¬ 
coverer of the elixir of life, of the philosopher’s stone, and 


3 


THE QUEEN OF SPADES 

so forth. Some laughed at him as a charlatan; but Casa¬ 
nova, in his memoirs, says that he was a spy. But be that 
as it may, St. Germain, in spite of the mystery surrounding 
him, was a very fascinating person, and was much sought 
after in the best circles of society. Even to this day my 
grandmother retains an affectionate recollection of him, and 
becomes quite angry if any one speaks disrespectfully of him. 
My grandmother knew that St. Germain had large sums 
of money at his disposal. She resolved to have recourse 
to him, and she wrote a letter to him asking him to come 
to her without delay. The queer old man immediately 
waited upon her and found her overwhelmed with grief. 
She described to him in the blackest colours the barbarity 
of her husband, and ended by declaring that her whole 
hope depended upon his friendship and amiability. 

“St. Germain reflected. 

“ ‘I could advance you the sum you want,’ said he; ‘but 
I know that you would not rest easy until you had paid me 
back, and I should not like to bring fresh troubles upon 
you. But there is another way of getting out of your 
difficulty: you can win back your money.’ 

“ ‘But, my dear Count,’ replied my grandmother, ‘I tell 
you that I haven’t any money left.’ 

“‘Money is not necessary,’ replied St. Germain: ‘be 
pleased to listen to me.’ 

“Then he revealed to her a secret, for which each of us 
would give a good deal . . 

The young officers listened with increased attention. 
k Tomsky lit his pipe, puffed away for a moment and then 
continued: 

“That same evening my grandmother went to Versailles 
to the jeu de la reine. The Duke of Orleans kept the bank; 
my grandmother excused herself in an off-hand manner 
for not having yet paid her debt, by inventing some little 
story, and then began to play against him. She chose three 
cards and played them one after the other: all three won 
sontka} and my grandmother recovered every farthing that 
she had lost.” 

1 Said of a card when it wins or loses in the quickest possible 
time. 



4 


BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 


“Mere chance!” said one of the guests. 

“A tale!” observed Hermann. 

“Perhaps they were marked cards!” said a third. 

“I do not think so,” replied Tomsky gravely. 

“What!” said Narumov, “you have a grandmother who 
knows how to hit upon three lucky cards in succession, and 
you have never yet succeeded in getting the secret of it 
out of her?” 

“That’s the deuce of it!” replied Tomsky: “she had four 
sons, one of whom was my father; all four were determined 
gamblers, and yet not to one of them did she ever reveal 
her secret, although it would not have been a bad thing 
either for them or for me. But this is what I heard from 
my uncle, Count Ivan Ilyich, and he assured me, on his 
honour, that it was true. The late Chaplitzky—the same 
who died in poverty after having squandered millions— 
once lost, in his youth, about three hundred thousand rou¬ 
bles—to Zorich, if I remember rightly. He was in despair. 
My grandmother, who was always very severe upon the ex¬ 
travagance of young men, took pity, however, upon Chap¬ 
litzky. She gave him three cards, telling him to play them 
one after the other, at the same time exacting from him a 
solemn promise that he would never play at cards again as 
long as he lived. Chaplitzky then went to his victorious 
opponent, and they began a fresh game. On the first card 
he staked fifty thousand rubles and won sonika; he doubled 
the stake and won again, till at last, by pursuing the same 
tactics, he won back more than he had lost . . . 

“But it is time to go to bed: it is a quarter to six al¬ 
ready.” 

And indeed it was already beginning to dawn: the young 
men emptied their glasses and then took leave of each 
other. 


II 


T HE old Countess A- was seated in her dressing- 

room in front of her looking-glass. Three waiting 
maids stood around her. Cne held a small pot of rouge, an¬ 
other a box of hair-pins, and the third a tall cap with bright 



5 


THE QUEEN OF SPADES 

red ribbons. The Countess had no longer the slightest pre¬ 
tensions to beauty, but she still preserved the habits of her 
youth, dressed in strict accordance with the fashion of sev¬ 
enty years before, and made as long and as careful a toilette 
as she would have done sixty years previously. Near the 
window, at an embroidery frame, sat a young lady, her 
ward. 

“Good morning, grandmamma,” said a young officer, en¬ 
tering the room. “Bonjour, Mademoiselle Lise. Grand¬ 
mamma, I want to ask you something.” 

“What is it, Paul?” 

“I want you to let me introduce one of my friends to you, 
and to allow me to bring him to the ball on Friday.” 

“Bring him direct to the ball and introduce him to me 
there. Were you at B-’s yesterday?” 

“Yes; everything went off very pleasantly, and dancing 
was kept up until five o’clock. How charming Yeletzkaya 
was!” 

“But, my dear, what is there charming about her? Isn’t 
she like her grandmother, the Princess Daria Petrovna? By 
the way, she must be very old, the Princess Daria Petrovna.” 

“How do you mean, old?” cried Tomsky thoughtlessly; 
“she died seven years ago.” 

The young lady raised her head and made a sign to the 
young officer. He then remembered that the old Countess 
was never to be informed of the death of any of her con¬ 
temporaries, and he bit his lips. But the old Countess 
heard the news with the greatest indifference. 

“Dead!” said she; “and I did not know it. We were 
appointed maids of honour at the same time, and when we 
were presented to the Empress. . . .” 

And the Countess for the hundredth time related to her 
grandson one of her anecdotes. 

“Come, Paul,” said she, when she had finished her story, 
“help me to get up. Lizanka, where is my snuff-box?” 

And the Countess with her three maids went behind a 
screen to finish her toilette. Tomsky was left alone with 
the young lady. 

“Who is the gentleman you wish to introduce to the Coun¬ 
tess?” asked Lizaveta Ivanovna in a whisper. 




6 


BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 


“Narumov. Do you know him?” 

“No. Is he a soldier or a civilian?” 

“A soldier.” 

“Is he in the Engineers?” 

“No, in the Cavalry. What made you think that he was 
in the Engineers?” 

The young lady smiled, but made no reply. 

“Paul,” cried the Countess from behind the screen, “send 
me some new novel, only pray don’t let it be one of the 
present day style.” 

“What do you mean, grandmother?” 

“That is, a novel, in which the hero strangles neither his 
father nor his mother, and in which there are no drowned 
bodies. I have a great horror of drowned persons.” 

“There are no such novels nowadays. Would you like a 
Russian one?” 

“Are there any Russian novels? Send me one, my dear, 
pray send me one!” 

“Good-bye, grandmother: I am in a hurry. . . . Good¬ 
bye, Lizaveta Ivanovna. W T hat made you think that Naru¬ 
mov was in the Engineers?” 

And Tomsky left the boudoir. 

Lizaveta Ivanovna was left alone: she laid aside her work 
and began to look out of the window. A few moments 
afterwards, at a corner house on the other side of the street, 
a young officer appeared. A deep blush covered her cheeks; 
she took up her work again and bent her head down over 
the frame. At the same moment the Countess returned 
completely dressed. 

“Order the carriage, Lizaveta,” said she; “we will go 
out for a drive.” 

Lizaveta arose from the frame and began to arrange her 
work. 

“What is the matter with you, my child, are you deaf?” 
cried the Countess. “Order the carriage to be got ready at 
once.” 

“I will do so this moment,” replied the young lady, has¬ 
tening into the ante-room. 

A servant entered and gave the Countess some books 
from Prince Paul Aleksandrovich. 


THE QUEEN OF SPADES 


7 


“Tell him that I am much obliged to him,” said the 
Countess. “Lizaveta! Lizaveta! where are you running 
to?” 

“I am going to dress.” 

“There is plenty of time, my dear. Sit down here. 
Open the first volume and read to me aloud.” 

Her companion took the book and read a few lines. 

“Louder,” said the Countess. “What is the matter with 
you, my child? Have you lost your voice? Wait—give 
me that footstool—a little nearer—that will do.” 

Lizaveta read two more pages. The Countess yawned. 

“Put the book down,” said she: “what a lot of nonsense! 
Send it back to Prince Paul with my thanks. . . . But 
where is the carriage?” 

“The carriage is ready,” said Lizaveta, looking out into 
the street. 

“How is it that you are not dressed?” said the Coun¬ 
tess: “I must always wait for you. It is intolerable, my 
dear!” 

Liza hastened to her room. She had not been there two 
minutes, before the Countess began to ring with all her 
might. The three waiting-maids came running in at one 
door and the valet at another. 

“How is it that you cannot hear me when I ring for 
you?” said the Countess. “Tell Lizaveta Ivanovna that I 
am waiting for her.” 

Lizaveta returned with her hat and cloak on. 

“At last you are here!” said the Countess. “But why 
such' an elaborate toilette? Whom do you intend to 
captivate? What sort of weather is it? It seems rather 
windy.” 

“No, your Ladyship, it is very calm,” replied the valet. 

“You never think of what you are talking about. Open 
the window. So it is: windy and bitterly cold. Unharness 
the horses. Lizaveta, we won’t go out—there was no need 
for you to deck yourself like that.” 

“What a life is mine!” thought Lizaveta Ivanovna. 

And, in truth, Lizaveta Ivanovna was a very unfortunate 
creature. “The bread of the stranger is bitter,” says Dante, 
“and his staircase hard to climb.” But who can know 


8 


BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 


what the bitterness of dependence is so well as the poor 

companion of an old lady of quality? The Countess A- 

had by no means a bad heart, but she was capricious, like a 
woman who had been spoilt by the world, as well as being 
avaricious and egotistical, like all old people who have seen 
their best days, and whose thoughts are with the past and 
not the present. She participated in all the vanities of the 
great world, went to balls, where she sat in a corner, painted 
and dressed in old-fashioned style, like a deformed but in¬ 
dispensable ornament of the ball-room; all the guests on 
entering approached her and made a profound bow, as if in 
accordance with a set ceremony, but after that nobody took 
any further notice of her. She received the whole town at 
her house, and observed the strictest etiquette, although she 
could no longer recognise the faces of people. Her nu¬ 
merous domestics, growing fat and old in her ante-chamber 
and servants’ hall, did just as they liked, and vied with 
each other in robbing the aged Countess in the most bare¬ 
faced manner. Lizaveta Ivanovna was the martyr of the 
household. She made tea, and was reproached with using 
too much sugar; she read novels aloud to the Countess, and 
the faults of the author were visited upon her head; she 
accompanied the Countess in her walks, and was held an¬ 
swerable for the weather or the state of the pavement. A 
salary was attached to the post, but she very rarely re¬ 
ceived it, although she was expected to dress like everybody 
else, that is to say, like very few Indeed. In society she 
played the most pitiable role. Everybody knew her, and 
nobody paid her any attention. At balls she danced only 
when a partner was wanted, and ladies would only take 
hold of her arm when it was necessary to lead her out of 
the room to attend to their dresses. She was very self- 
conscious, and felt her position keenly, and she looked about 
her with impatience for a deliverer to come to her rescue; 
but the young men, calculating in their giddiness, honoured 
her with but very little attention, although Lizaveta Ivan¬ 
ovna was a hundred times prettier than the bare-faced and 
cold-hearted marriageable girls around whom they hovered. 
Many a time did she quietly slink away from the glittering 
but wearisome drawing-room, to go and cry in her own poor 



THE QUEEN OF SPADES 


9 


little room, in which stood a screen, a chest of drawers, a 
looking-glass and a painted bedstead, and where a tallow 
candle burnt feebly in a copper candle-stick. 

One morning—this was about two days after the evening 
party described at the beginning of this story, and a week 
previous to the scene at which we have just assisted— 
Lizaveta Ivanovna was seated near the window at her em¬ 
broidery frame, when, happening to look out into the street, 
she caught sight of a young Engineer officer, standing mo¬ 
tionless with his eyes fixed upon her window. She lowered 
her head and went on again with her work. About five min¬ 
utes afterwards she looked out again—the young officer was 
still standing in the same place. Not being in the habit of 
coquetting with passing officers, she did not continue to gaze 
out into the street, but went on sewing for a couple of 
hours, without raising her head. Dinner was announced. 
She rose up and began to put her embroidery away, but 
glancing casually out of the window, she perceived the offi¬ 
cer again. This seemed to her very strange. After dinner 
she went to the window with a certain feeling of uneasiness, 
but the officer was no longer there—and she thought no 
more about him. 

A couple of days afterwards, just as she was stepping into 
the carriage with the Countess, she saw him again. He was 
standing close behind the door, with his face half-concealed 
by his fur collar, but his dark eyes sparkled beneath his 
cap. Lizaveta felt alarmed, though she knew not why, and 
she trembled as she seated herself in the carriage. 

On returning home, she hastened to the window—the 
officer was standing in his accustomed place, with his 
eyes fixed upon her. She drew back, a prey to curiosity 
and agitated by a feeling which was quite new to her. 

From that time forward not a day passed without the 
young officer making his appearance under the window at 
the customary hour, and between him and her there was 
established a sort of mute acquaintance. Sitting in her 
place at work, she used to feel his approach; and raising her 
head, she would look at him longer and longer each day. 
The young man seemed to be very grateful to her: she saw 
with the sharp eye of youth, how a sudden flush covered his 


10 


BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 


pale cheeks each time that their glances met. After about a 
week she commenced to smile at him. . . . 

When Tomsky asked permission of his grandmother the 
Countess to present one of his friends to her, the young 
girl’s heart beat violently. But hearing that Narumov was 
not an Engineer, she regretted that by her thoughtless ques¬ 
tion, she had betrayed her secret to the volatile Tomsky. 

Hermann was the son of a German who had become 
a naturalised Russian, and from whom he had inherited a 
small capital. Being firmly convinced of the necessity of 
preserving his independence, Hermann did not touch his 
private income, but lived on his pay, without allowing him¬ 
self the slightest luxury. Moreover, he was reserved and 
ambitious, and his companions rarely had an opportunity of 
making merry at the expense of his extreme parsimony. He 
had strong passions and an ardent imagination, but his firm¬ 
ness of disposition preserved him from the ordinary errors 
of young men. Thus, though a gamester at heart, he never 
touched a card, for he considered his position did not allow 
him—as he said—“to risk the necessary in the hope of 
winning the superfluous,” yet he would sit for nights to¬ 
gether at the card table and follow with feverish anxiety the 
different turns of the game. 

The story of the three cards had produced a powerful im¬ 
pression upon his imagination, and all night long he could 
think of nothing else. “If,” he thought to himself the fol¬ 
lowing evening, as he walked along the streets of St. Peters¬ 
burg, “if the old Countess would but reveal her secret to me! 
if she would only tell me the names of the three winning 
cards. Why should I not try my fortune? I must get intro¬ 
duced to her and win her favour—become her lover. . . . 
But all that will take time, and she is eighty-seven years old: 
she might be dead in a week, in a couple of days even! . . . 
But the story itself: can it really be true? . . .No! Econ¬ 
omy, temperance and industry: those are my three winning 
cards; by means of them I shall be able to double my capital 
—increase it sevenfold, and procure for myself ease and in¬ 
dependence.” 

Musing in this manner, he walked on until he found him¬ 
self in one of the principal streets of St. Petersburg, in front 


II 


THE QUEEN OF SPADES 

of a house of antiquated architecture. The street was 
blocked with equipages; carriages one after the other drew 
up in front of the brilliantly illuminated doorway. At one 
moment there stepped out on to the pavement the well- 
shaped little foot of some young beauty, at another the 
heavy boot of a cavalry officer, and then the silk stockings 
and shoes of a member of the diplomatic world. Furs and 
cloaks passed in rapid succession before the gigantic por¬ 
ter at the entrance. 

Hermann stopped. “Who’s house is this?” he asked of 
the watchman at the comer. 

“The Countess A-’s,” replied the watchman. 

Hermann started. The strange story of the three cards 
again presented itself to his imagination. He began walking 
up and down before the house, thinking of its owner and her 
strange secret. Returning late to his modest lodging, he 
could not go to sleep for a long time, and when at last he 
did doze off, he could dream of nothing but cards, green 
tables, piles of banknotes and heaps of ducats. He played 
one card after the other, winning uninterruptedly, and then 
he gathered up the gold and filled his pockets with the notes. 
When he woke up late the next morning, he sighed over the 
loss of his imaginary wealth, and then sallying out into the 
town, he found himself once more in front of the Countess’s 
residence. Some unknown power seemed to have attracted 
him thither. He stopped and looked up at the windows. 
At one of these he saw a head with luxuriant black hair, 
which was bent down probably over some book or an em¬ 
broidery frame. The head was raised. Hermann saw a 
fresh complexion and a pair of dark eyes. That moment de¬ 
cided his fate. 


Ill 

L IZAVETA IVANOVNA had scarcely taken off her hat 
and cloak, when the Countess sent for her and again 
ordered her to get the carriage ready. The vehicle drew up 
before the door, and they prepared to take their seats. Just 
at the moment when two footmen were assisting the old lady 
to enter the carriage, Lizaveta saw her Engineer standing 



12 


BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 


close beside the wheel; he grasped her hand; alarm caused 
her to lose her presence of mind, and the young man dis¬ 
appeared—but not before he had left a letter between her 
fingers. She concealed it in her glove, and during the whole 
of the drive she neither saw nor heard anything. It was 
the custom of the Countess, when out for an airing in her 
carriage, to be constantly asking such questions as; “Who 
was that person that met us just now? What is the name 
of this bridge? What is w T ritten on that signboard?” On 
this occasion, however, Lizaveta returned such vague and 
absurd answers, that the Countess became angry with her. 

“What is the matter with you, my dear?” she exclaimed. 
“Have you taken leave of your senses, or what is it? Do 
you not hear me or understand what I say? . . . Heaven 
be thanked, I am still in my right mind and speak plainly 
enough!” 

Lizaveta Ivanovna did not hear her. On returning home 
she ran to her room, and drew the letter out of her glove: it 
was not sealed. Lizaveta read it. The letter contained a 
declaration of love; it was tender, respectful, and copied 
word for word from a German novel. But Lizaveta did not 
know anything of the German language, and she was quite 
delighted. 

For all that, the letter caused her to feel exceedingly un¬ 
easy. For the first time in her life she was entering into 
secret and confidential relations with a young man. His 
boldness alarmed her. She reproached herself for her im¬ 
prudent behaviour, and knew not what to do. Should she 
cease to sit at the window and, by assuming an appearance 
of indifference towards him, put a check upon the young 
officer’s desire for further acquaintance with her? Should 
she send his letter back to him, or should she answer him 
in a cold and decided manner? There was nobody to whom 
she could turn in her perplexity, for she had neither female 
friend nor adviser. ... At length she resolved to reply to 
him. 

She sat down at her little writing-table, took pen and 
paper, and began to think. Several times she began her 
letter, and then tore it up: the way she had expressed her¬ 
self seemed to her either too inviting or too cold and de- 


THE QUEEN OF SPADES 


13 


cisive. At last she succeeded in writing a few lines with 
which she felt satisfied. 

“I am convinced/’ she wrote, “that your intentions are 
honourable, and that you do not wish to offend me by any 
imprudent behaviour, but our acquaintance must not begin 
in such a manner. I return you your letter, and I hope that 
I shall never have any cause to complain of this undeserved 
slight.” 

The next day, as soon as Hermann made his appearance, 
Lizaveta rose from her embroidery, went into the drawing¬ 
room, opened the ventilator and threw the letter into the 
street, trusting that the young officer would have the percep¬ 
tion to pick it up. 

Hermann hastened forward, picked it up and then repaired 
to a confectioner’s shop. Breaking the seal of the envelope, 
he found inside it his own letter and Lizaveta’s reply. He 
had expected this, and he returned home, his mind deeply 
occupied with his intrigue. 

Three days afterwards, a bright-eyed young girl from a 
milliner’s establishment brought Lizaveta a letter. Lizaveta 
opened it with great uneasiness, fearing that it was a de¬ 
mand for money, when suddenly she recognised Hermann’s 
hand-writing. 

“You have made a mistake, my dear,” said she: “this let¬ 
ter is not for me.” 

“Oh, yes, it is for you,” replied the girl, smiling very 
knowingly. “Have the goodness to read it.” 

Lizaveta glanced at the letter. Hermann requested an 
interview. 

“It cannot be,” she cried, alarmed at the audacious 
request, and the manner in which it was made. “This 
letter is certainly not for me.” 

And she tore it into fragments. 

“If the letter was not for you, why have you tom it up?” 
said the girl. “I should have given it back to the person 
who sent it.” 

“Be good enough, my dear,” said Lizaveta, disconcerted 
by this remark, “not to bring me any more letters for the 
future, and tell the person who sent you that he ought to be 
ashamed. . . .” 


14 


BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 


But Hermann was not the man to be thus put off. Every 
day Lizaveta received from him a letter, sent now in this 
way, now in that. They were no longer translated from the 
German. Hermann wrote them under the inspiration of 
passion, and spoke in his own language, and they bore full 
testimony to the inflexibility of his desire and the disordered 
condition of his uncontrollable imagination. Lizaveta no 
longer thought of sending them back to him: she became 
intoxicated with them and began to reply to them, and little 
by little her answers became longer and more affectionate. 
At last she threw out of the window to him the following 
letter: 

“This evening there is going to be a ball at the Embassy. 
The Countess will be there. We shall remain until two 
o’clock. You have now an opportunity of seeing me alone. 
As soon as the Countess is gone, the servants will very prob¬ 
ably go out, and there will be nobody left but the Swiss, 
but he usually goes to sleep in his lodge. Come about half¬ 
past eleven. Walk straight upstairs. If you meet anybody 
in the ante-room, ask if the Countess is at home. You will 
be told £ No,’ in which case there will be nothing left for you 
to do but to go away again. But it is most probable that 
you will meet nobody. The maidservants will all be to¬ 
gether in one room. On leaving the ante-room, turn to 
the left, and walk straight on until you reach the Countess’s 
bedroom. In the bedroom, behind a screen, you will find 
two doors: the one on the right leads to a cabinet, which 
the Countess never enters; the one on the left leads to a 
corridor, at the end of which is a little winding staircase; 
this leads to my room.” 

Hermann trembled like a tiger, as he waited for the 
appointed time to arrive. At ten o’clock in the evening he 
was already in front of the Countess’s house. The weather 
was terrible; the wind blew with great violence; the sleety 
snow fell in large flakes; the lamps emitted a feeble light, 
the streets were deserted; from time to time a sledge, drawn 
by a sorry-looking hack, passed by, on the look-out for a 
belated passenger. Hermann was enveloped in a thick over¬ 
coat, and felt neither wind nor snow. 

At last the Countess’s carriage drew up. Hermann saw 


THE QUEEN OF SPADES 


15 


two footmen carry out in their arms the bent form of the 
old lady, wrapped in sable fur, and immediately behind her, 
clad in a warm mantle, and with her head ornamented with 
a wreath of fresh flowers, followed Lizaveta. The door was 
closed. The carriage rolled away heavily through the yield¬ 
ing snow. The porter shut the street-door; the windows be¬ 
came dark. 

Hermann began walking up and down near the deserted 
house; at length he stopped under a lamp, and glanced at 
his watch: it was twenty minutes past eleven. He remained 
standing under the lamp, his eyes fixed upon the watch, 
impatiently waiting for the remaining minutes to pass. At 
half-past eleven precisely, Hermann ascended the steps of 
the house, and made his way into the brightly-illuminated 
vestibule. The porter was not there. Hermann hastily 
ascended the staircase, opened the door of the ante-room 
and saw a footman sitting asleep in an antique chair by the 
side of a lamp. With a light firm step Hermann passed by 
him. The drawing-room and dining-room were in darkness, 
but a feeble reflection penetrated thither from the lamp in 
the ante-room. 

Hermann reached the Countess’s bedroom. Before a 
shrine, which was full of old images, a golden lamp was 
burning. Faded stuffed chairs and divans with soft cush¬ 
ions stood in melancholy symmetry around the room, the 
walls of which were hung with China silk. On one side of 
the room hung two portraits painted in Paris by Madame 
Lebrun. One of these represented a stout, red-faced man 
of about forty years of age in a bright-green uniform and 
with a star upon his breast; the other—a beautiful young 
woman, with an aquiline nose, forehead curls and a rose in 
her powdered hair. In the corners stood porcelain shepherds 
and shepherdesses, dining-room clocks from the workshop 
of the celebrated Lefroy, bandboxes, roulettes, fans and the 
various playthings for the amusement of ladies that were in 
vogue at the end of the last century, when Montgolfier’s 
balloons and Mesmer’s magnetism were the rage. Hermann 
stepped behind the screen. At the back of it stood a little 
iron bedstead: on the right was the door which led to the 


i6 


BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 


cabinet; on the left—the other which led to the corridor. 
He opened the latter, and saw the little winding staircase 
which led to the room of the poor companion. . . . But he 
retraced his steps and entered the dark cabinet. 

The time passed slowly. All was still. The clock in the 
drawing-room struck twelve; the strokes echoed through 
the room one after the other, and everything was quiet 
again. Hermann stood leaning against the cold stove. He 
was calm; his heart beat regularly, like that of a man re¬ 
solved upon a dangerous but inevitable undertaking. One 
o’clock in the morning struck; then two; and he heard the 
distant noise of carriage-wheels. An involuntary agitation 
took possession of him. The carriage drew near and stopped. 
He heard the sound of the carriage-steps being let down. 
All was bustle within the house. The servants were run¬ 
ning hither and thither, there was a confusion of voices, 
and the rooms were lit up. Three antiquated chamber-maids 
entered the bedroom, and they were shortly afterwards fol¬ 
lowed by the Countess who, more dead than alive, sank into 
a Voltaire armchair. Hermann peeped through a chink. 
Lizaveta Ivanovna passed close by him, and he heard her 
hurried steps as she hastened up the little spiral staircase. 
For a moment his heart was assailed by something like a 
pricking of conscience, but the emotion was only transitory, 
and his heart became petrified as before. 

The Countess began to undress before her looking-glass. 
Her rose-bedecked cap was taken off, and then her powdered 
wig was removed from off her white and closely-cut hair. 
Hairpins fell in showers around her. Her yellow satin dress, 
brocaded with silver, fell down at her swollen feet. 

Hermann was a witness of the repugnant mysteries of her 
toilette; at last the Countess was in her night-cap and dress¬ 
ing-gown, and in this costume, more suitable to her age, she 
appeared less hideous and deformed. 

Like all old people in general, the Countess suffered from 
sleeplessness. Having undressed, she seated herself at the 
window in a Voltaire armchair and dismissed her maids. 
The candles were taken away, and once more the room was 
left with only one lamp burning in it. The Countess sat 
there looking quite yellow, mumbling with her flaccid lips 


THE QUEEN OF SPADES 


i7 


and swaying to and fro. Her dull eyes expressed complete 
vacancy of mind, and, looking at her, one would have 
thought that the rocking of her body was not a voluntary 
action of her own, but was produced by the action of some 
concealed galvanic mechanism. 

Suddenly the death-like face assumed an inexplicable 
expression. The lips ceased to tremble, the eyes became 
animated: before the Countess stood an unknown man. 

“Do not be alarmed, for Heaven’s sake, do not be 
alarmed!” said he in a low but distinct voice. “I have no 
intention of doing you any harm, I have only come to ask a 
favour of you.” 

The old woman looked at him in silence, as if she had 
not heard what he had said. Hermann thought that she 
was deaf, and, bending down towards her ear, he repeated 
what he had said. The aged Countess remained silent as 
before. 

“You can insure the happiness of my life,” continued 
Hermann, “and it will cost you nothing. I know that you 
can name three cards in order-” 

Hermann stopped. The Countess appeared now to un¬ 
derstand what he wanted; she seemed as if seeking for words 
to reply. 

“It was a joke,” she replied at last: “I assure you it was 
only a joke.” 

“There is no joking about the matter,” replied Hermann 
angrily. “Remember Chaplitzky, whom you helped to 
win.” 

The Countess became visibly uneasy. Her features ex¬ 
pressed strong emotion, but they quickly resumed their for¬ 
mer immobility. 

“Can you not name me these three winning cards?” con¬ 
tinued Hermann. 

The Countess remained silent; Hermann continued: 

“For whom are you preserving your secret? For your 
grandsons? They are rich enough without it; they do not 
know the worth of money. Your cards would be of no use 
to a spendthrift. He who cannot preserve his paternal in¬ 
heritance, will die in want, even though he had a demon at 
his service. I am not a man of that sort; I know the value 




i8 


BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 


of money. Your three cards will not be thrown away upon 
me. Come!” . . . 

He paused and tremblingly awaited her reply. The 
Countess remained silent; Hermann fell upon his knees. 

“If your heart has ever known the feeling of love,” said 
he, “if you remember its rapture, if you have ever smiled 
at the cry of your new-born child, if any human feeling has 
ever entered into your breast, I entreat you by the feelings 
of a wife, a lover, a mother, by all that is most sacred in 
life, not to reject my prayer. Reveal to me your secret. 
Of what use is it to you? . . . May be it is connected with 
some terrible sin, with the loss of eternal salvation, with 
some bargain with the devil. . . . Reflect,—you are old; 
you have not long to live—I am ready to take your sins 
upon my soul. Only reveal to me your secret. Remember 
that the happiness of a man is in your hands, that not only 
I, but my children, and grandchildren will bless your mem¬ 
ory and reverence you as a saint. . . .” 

The old Countess answered not a word. 

Hermann rose to his feet. 

“You old hag!” he exclaimed, grinding his teeth, “then I 
will make you answer!” 

With these words he drew a pistol from his pocket. 

At the sight of the pistol, the Countess for the second 
time exhibited strong emotion. She shook her head and 
raised her hands as if to protect herself from the shot. . . . 
then she fell backwards and remained motionless. 

“Come, an end to this childish nonsense!” said Hermann, 
taking hold of her hand. “I ask you for the last time: will 
you tell me the names of your three cards, or will you not?” 

The Countess made no reply. Hermann perceived that 
she was dead! 


IV 

L IZAVETA IVANOVNA was sitting in her room, still 
in her ball dress, lost in deep thought. On returning 
home, she had hastily dismissed the chambermaid who very 
reluctantly came forward to assist her, saying that she would 
undress herself, and with a trembling heart had gone up to 


THE QUEEN OF SPADES 


19 


her own room, expecting to find Hermann there, but yet 
hoping not to find him. At the first glance she convinced 
herself that he was not there, and she thanked her fate for 
having prevented him keeping the appointment. She sat 
down without undressing, and began to recall to mind all 
the circumstances which in so short a time had carried her 
so far. It was not three weeks since the time when she 
first saw the young officer from the window—and yet she 
was already in correspondence with him, and he had suc¬ 
ceeded in inducing her to grant him a nocturnal interview! 
She knew his name only through his having written it at the 
bottom of some of his letters; she had never spoken to him, 
had never heard his voice, and had never heard him spoken 
of until that evening. But, strange to say, that very evening 
at the ball, Tomsky, being piqued with the young Princess 

Pauline N-, who, contrary to her usual custom, did not 

flirt with him, wished to revenge himself by assuming an 
air of indifference: he therefore engaged Lizaveta Ivanovna 
and danced an endless mazurka with her. During the whole 
of the time he kept teasing her about her partiality for En¬ 
gineer officers; he assured her that he knew far more than 
she imagined, and some of his jests were so happily aimed, 
that Lizaveta thought several times that her secret was 
known to him. 

“From whom have you learnt all this?” she asked, smiling. 

“From a friend of a person very well known to you,” re¬ 
plied Tomsky, “from a very distinguished man.” 

“And who is this distinguished man?” 

“His name is Hermann.” 

Lizaveta made no reply; but her hands and feet lost all 
sense of feeling. 

“This Hermann,” continued Tomsky, “is a man of roman¬ 
tic personality. He has the profile of a Napoleon, and the 
soul of a Mephistopheles. I believe that he has at least 
three crimes upon his conscience. . . . How pale you have 
become!” 

“I have a headache . . . But what did this Hermann— 
or whatever his name is—tell you?” 

“Hermann is very much dissatisfied with his friend: he 
says that in his place he would act very differently ... I 



20 


BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 


even think that Hermann himself has designs upon you; at 
least, he listens very attentively to all that his friend has to 
say about you.” 

“And where has he seen me?” 

“In church, perhaps; or on the parade—God alone knows 
where. It may have been in your room, while you were* 
asleep, for there is nothing that he-” 

Three ladies approaching him with the question: “oubli 
ou regret?” interrupted the conversation, which had become 
so tantalisingiy interesting to Lizaveta. 

The lady chosen by Tomsky was the Princess Pauline 
herself. She succeeded in effecting a reconciliation with him 
during the numerous turns of the dance, after which he 
conducted her to her chair. On returning to his place, 
Tomsky thought no more either of Hermann or Lizaveta. 
She longed to renew the interrupted conversation, but the 
mazurka came to an end, and shortly afterwards the old 
Countess took her departure. 

Tomsky’s words were nothing more than the customary 
small talk of the dance, but they sank deep into the soul of 
the young dreamer. The portrait, sketched by Tomsky, 
coincided with the picture she had formed within her own 
mind, and thanks to the latest romances, the ordinary coun¬ 
tenance of her admirer became invested with attributes ca¬ 
pable of alarming her and fascinating her imagination at 
the same time. She was now sitting with her bare arms 
crossed and with her head, still adorned with flowers, sunk 
upon her uncovered bosom. Suddenly the door opened and 
Hermann entered. She shuddered. 

“Where were you?” she asked in a terrified whisper. 

In the old Countess’s bedroom,” replied Hermann: “I 
have just left her. The Countess is dead.” 

“My God! What do you say?” 

“And I am afraid,” added Hermann, “that I am the cause 
of her death.” 

Lizaveta looked at him, and Tomsky’s words found an 
echo in her soul: “This man has at least three crimes upon 
his conscience!” Hermann sat down by the window near 
her, and related all that had happened. 

Lizaveta listened to him in terror. So all those passion- 



THE QUEEN OF SPADES 


21 


ate letters, those ardent desires, this bold obstinate pursuit— 
all this was not love! Money-—that was what his soul 
yearned for! She could not satisfy his desire and make him 
happy! The poor girl had been nothing but the blind tool 
of a robber, of the murderer of her aged benefactress! . . . 
She wept bitter tears of agonised repentance. Hermann 
gazed at her in silence: his heart, too, was a prey to violent 
emotion, but neither the tears of the poor girl, nor the won¬ 
derful charm of her beauty, enhanced by her grief, could 
produce any impression upon his hardened soul. He felt 
no pricking of conscience at the thought of the dead oid 
woman. One thing only grieved him: the irreparable loss 
of the secret from which he had expected to obtain great 
wealth. 

“You are a monster!” said Lizaveta at last. 

“I did not wish for her death,” replied Hermann: “my 
pistol was not loaded.” 

Both remained silent. 

The day began to dawn. Lizaveta extinguished her can¬ 
dle: a pale light illumined her room. She wiped her tear- 
stained eyes and raised them towards Hermann: he was 
sitting near the window, with his arms crossed and with 
a fierce frown upon his forehead. In this attitude he bore 
a striking resemblance to the portrait of Napoleon. This re¬ 
semblance struck Lizaveta even. 

“How shall I get you out of the house?” said she at 
last. “I thought of conducting you down the secret stair¬ 
case, but in that case it would be necessary to go through 
the Countess’s bedroom, and I am afraid.” 

“Tell me how to find this secret staircase—I will go 
alone.” 

Lizaveta arose, took from her drawer a key, handed it to 
Hermann and gave him the necessary instructions. Her¬ 
mann pressed her cold, limp hand, kissed her bowed head, 
and left the room. 

He descended the winding staircase, and once more en¬ 
tered the Countess’s bedroom. The dead old lady sat as if 
petrified; her face expressed profound tranquillity. Her¬ 
mann stopped before her, and gazed long and earnestly at 
her, as if he wished to convince himself of the terrible 


22 


BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 


reality; at last he entered the cabinet, felt behind the tap¬ 
estry for the door, and then began to descend the dark stair¬ 
case, filled with strange emotions. “Down this very stairs 
case,” thought he, “perhaps coming from the very same 
room, and at this very same hour sixty years ago, there may 
have glided, in an embroidered coat, with his hair dressed 
a Voiseau royal and pressing to his heart his three-cornered 
hat, some young gallant, who has long been mouldering in 
the grave, but the heart of his aged mistress has only to-day 
ceased to beat. . . .” 

At the bottom of the staircase Hermann found a door, 
which he opened with a key, and then traversed a corridor 
which conducted him into the street. 


V 


HREE days after the fatal night, at nine o’clock in the 



i morning, Hermann repaired to the Convent of-, 

where the last honours were to be paid to the mortal remains 
of the old Countess. Although feeling no remorse, he could 
not altogether stifle the voice of conscience, which said to 
him: “You are the murderer of the old woman!” In spite 
of his entertaining very little religious belief, he was exceed¬ 
ingly superstitious; and believing that the dead Countess 
might exercise an evil influence on his life, he resolved to 
be present at her obsequies in order to implore her pardon. 

The church was full. It was with difficulty that Hermann 
made his way through the crowd of people. The coffin was 
placed upon a rich catafalque beneath a velvet baldachin. 
The deceased Countess lay within it, with her hands crossed 
upon her breast, with a lace cap upon her head and dressed 
in a white satin robe. Around the catafalque stood the mem¬ 
bers of her household: the servants in black caftans, with 
armorial ribbons upon their shoulders, and candles in their 
hands; the relatives—children, grandchildren, and great- 
grandchildren—in deep mourning. 

Nobody wept; tears would have been une affectation. The 
Countess was so old, that her death could have surprised 



23 


THE QUEEN OF SPADES 

nobody, and her relatives had long looked upon her as be¬ 
ing out of the world. A famous preacher pronounced the 
funeral sermon. In simple and touching words he described 
the peaceful passing away of the righteous, who had passed 
long years in calm preparation for a Christian end. “The 
angel of death found her,” said the orator, “engaged in 
pious meditation and waiting for the midnight bridegroom.” 

The service concluded amidst profound silence. The rela¬ 
tives went forward first to take farewell of the corpse. Then 
followed the numerous guests, who had come to render the 
last homage to her who for so many years had been a 
participator in their frivolous amusements. After these fol¬ 
lowed the members of the Countess’s household. The last 
of these was an old woman of the same age as the de¬ 
ceased. Two young women led her forward by the hand. 
She had not strength enough to bow down to the ground— 
she merely shed a few tears and kissed the cold hand of her 
mistress. 

Hermann now resolved to approach the coffin. He knelt 
down upon the cold stones and remained in that position 
for some minutes; at last he arose, as pale as the deceased 
Countess herself; he ascended the steps of the catafalque 
and bent over the corpse. ... At that moment it seemed 
to him that the dead woman darted a mocking look at him 
and winked with one eye. Hermann started back, took a 
false step and fell to the ground. Several persons hurried 
forward and raised him up. At the same moment Lizaveta 
Ivanovna was borne fainting into the porch of the church. 
This episode disturbed for some minutes the solemnity of the 
gloomy ceremony. Among the congregation arose a deep 
murmur, and a tall thin chamberlain, a near relative of the 
deceased, whispered in the ear of an Englishman who was 
standing near him, that the young officer was a natural son 
of the Countess, to which die Englishman coldly replied: 
“Oh!” 

During the whole of that day, Hermann was strangely ex¬ 
cited. Repairing to an out-of-the-way restaurant to dine, 
he drank a great deal of wine, contrary to his usual custom, 
in the hope of deadening his inward agitation. But the 
wine only served to excite his imagination still more. On 


24 


BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 


returning home, he threw himself upon his bed without 
undressing, and fell into a deep sleep. 

When he woke up it was already night, and the moon was 
shining into the room. He looked at his watch: it was a 
quarter to three. Sleep had left him; he sat down upon 
his bed and thought of the funeral of the old Countess. 

At that moment somebody in the street looked in at his 
window, and immediately passed on again. Hermann paid 
no attention to this incident. A few moments afterwards he 
heard the door of his ante-room open. Hermann thought 
that it was his orderly, drunk as usual, returning from some 
nocturnal expedition, but presently he heard footsteps that 
were unknown to him: somebody was walking softly over 
the floor in slippers. The door opened, and a woman dressed 
in white, entered the room. Hermann mistook her for his 
old nurse, and wondered what could bring her there at that 
hour of the night. But the white woman glided rapidly 
across the room and stood before him—and Hermann recog¬ 
nised the Countess 1 

“I have come to you against my wish,” she said in a firm 
voice: “but I have been ordered to grant your request. 
Three, seven, ace, will win for you if played in succession, 
but only on these conditions: that you do not play more 
than one card in twenty-four hours, and that you never play 
again during the rest of your life. I forgive you my death, 
on condition that you marry my companion, Lizaveta 
Ivanovna.” 

With these words she turned round very quietly, walked 
with a shuffling gait towards the door and disappeared. Her¬ 
mann heard the street-door open and shut, and again he 
saw some one look in at him through the window. 

For a long time Hermann could not recover himself. He 
then rose up and entered the next room. His orderly was 
lying asleep upon the floor, and he had much difficulty in 
waking him. The orderly was drunk as usual, and no in¬ 
formation could be obtained from him. The street-door was 
locked. Hermann returned to his room, lit his candle, and 
wrote down all the details of his vision. 


THE QUEEN OF SPADES 


25 


VI 

T WO fixed ideas can no more exist together in the moral 
world than two bodies can occupy one and the same 
place in the physical world. “Three, seven, ace,” soon 
drove out of Hermann’s mind the thought of the dead Coun¬ 
tess. “Three, seven, ace,” were perpetually running 
through his head and continually being repeated by his lips. 
If he saw a young girl, he would say: “How slender she is! 
quite like the three of hearts.” If anybody asked: “What 
is the time?” he would reply: “Five minutes to seven.” 
Every stout man that he saw reminded him of the ace. 
“Three, seven, ace” haunted him in his sleep, and assumed 
all possible shapes. The threes bloomed before him in the 
forms of magnificent flowers, the sevens were represented 
by Gothic portals, and the aces became transformed into 
gigantic spiders. One thought alone occupied his whole mind 
—to make a profitable use of the secret which he had 
purchased so dearly. He thought of applying for a fur¬ 
lough so as to travel abroad. He wanted to go to Paris 
and tempt fortune in some of the public gambling-houses 
that abounded there. Chance spared him all this trouble. 

There was in Moscow a society of rich gamesters, pre¬ 
sided over by the celebrated Chekalinsky, who had passed 
all his life at the card-table and had amassed millions, ac¬ 
cepting bills of exchange for his winnings and paying his 
losses in ready money. His long experience secured for 
him the confidence of his companions, and his open house, 
his famous cook, and his agreeable and fascinating man¬ 
ners gained for him the respect of the public. He came to 
St. Petersburg. The young men of the capital flocked to his 
rooms, forgetting balls for cards, and preferring the emotions 
of faro to the seductions of flirting. Narumov conducted 
Hermann to Chekalinsky’s residence. 

They passed through a suite of magnificent rooms, filled 
with attentive domestics. The place was crowded. Gener¬ 
als and Privy Counsellors were playing at whist; young men 
were lolling carelessly upon the velvet-covered sofas, eating 
ices and smoking pipes. In the drawing-room, at the head 


26 


BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 


of a long table, around which were assembled about a score 
of players, sat the master of the house keeping the bank. 
He was a man of about sixty years of age, of a very digni¬ 
fied appearance; his head was covered with silvery-white 
hair; his full, florid countenance expressed good-nature, and 
his eyes twinkled with a perpetual smile. Narumov intro¬ 
duced Hermann to him. Chekalinsky shook him by the 
hand in a friendly manner, requested him not to stand on 
ceremony, and then went on dealing. 

The game occupied some time. On the table lay more 
than thirty cards. Chekalinsky paused after each throw, in 
order to give the players time to arrange their cards and 
note down their losses, listened politely to their requests, 
and more politely still, put straight the corners of cards 
that some player’s hand had chanced to bend. At last the 
game was finished. Chekalinsky shuffled the cards and pre¬ 
pared to deal again. 

“Will you allow me to take a card?” said Hermann, 
stretching out his hand from behind a stout gentleman who 
was punting. 

Chekalinsky smiled and bowed silently, as a sign of acqui¬ 
escence. Narumov laughingly congratulated Hermann on 
his abjuration of that abstention from cards which he had 
practised for so long a period, and wished him a lucky be¬ 
ginning. 

“Stake!” said Hermann, writing some figures with chalk 
on the back of his card. 

“How much?” asked the banker, contracting the muscles 
of his eyes; “excuse me, I cannot see quite clearly.” 

“Forty-seven thousand rubles,” replied Hermann. „ 

At these words every head in the room turned suddenly 
round, and all eyes were fixed upon Hermann. 

“He has taken leave of his senses!” thought Narumov. 

“Allow me to inform you,” said Chekalinsky, with his 
eternal smile, “that you are playing very high; nobody here 
has ever staked more than two hundred and seventy-five 
rubles at once.” 

“Very well,” replied Hermann; “but do you accept my 
card or not?” 

Chekalinsky bowed in token of consent. 


27 


THE QUEEN OF SPADES 

“I only wish to observe,” said he, “that although I have 
the greatest confidence in my friends, I can only play against 
ready money. For my own part, I am quite convinced that 
your word is sufficient, but for the sake of the order of the 
game, and to facilitate the reckoning up, I must ask you 
to put the money on your card.” 

Hermann drew from his pocket a bank-note and handed 
it to Chekalinsky, who, after examining it in a cursory 
manner, placed it on Hermann’s card. 

He began to deal. On the right a nine turned up, and on 
the left a three. 

“I have won!” said Hermann, showing his card. 

A murmur of astonishment arose among the players. Che¬ 
kalinsky frowned, but the smile quickly returned to his face. 

“Do you wish me to settle with you?” he said to Her¬ 
mann. 

“If you please,” replied the latter. 

Chekalinsky drew from his pocket a number of bank¬ 
notes and paid at once. Hermann took up his money and 
left the table. Narumov could not recover from his aston¬ 
ishment. Hermann drank a glass of lemonade and returned 
home. 

The next evening he again repaired to Chekalinsky’s. The 
host was dealing. Hermann walked up to the table; the 
punters immediately made room for him. Chekalinsky 
greeted him with a gracious bow. 

Hermann waited for the next deal, took a card and placed 
upon it his forty-seven thousand roubles, together with his 
winnings of the previous evening. 

Chekalinsky began to deal. A knave turned up on the 
right, a seven on the left. 

Hermann showed his seven. 

There was a general exclamation. Chekalinsky was evi¬ 
dently ill at ease, but he counted out the ninety-four thou¬ 
sand rubles and handed them over to Hermann, who pock¬ 
eted them in the coolest manner possible and immediately 
left the house. 

The next evening Hermann appeared again at the table. 
Every one was expecting him. The generals and Privy Coun¬ 
sellors left their whist in order to watch such extraordinary 


28 


BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 


play. The young officers quitted their sofas, and even the 
servants crowded into the room. All pressed round Her¬ 
mann. The other players left off punting, impatient to see 
how it would end. Hermann stood at the table and pre¬ 
pared to play alone against the pale, but still smiling Cheka¬ 
linsky. Each opened a pack of cards. Chekalinsky shuf¬ 
fled. Hermann took a card and covered it with a pile of 
bank-notes. It was like a duel. Deep silence reigned around. 

Chekalinsky began to deal; his hands trembled. On the 
right a queen turned up, and on the left an ace. 

“Ace has won!” cried Hermann, showing his card. 

“Your queen has lost,” said Chekalinsky, politely. 

Hermann started; instead of an ace, there lay before him 
the queen of spades! He could not believe his eyes, nor 
could he understand how he had made such a mistake. 

At that moment it seemed to him that the queen of spades 
smiled ironically and winked her eye at him. He was struck 
by her remarkable resemblance. . . .’ 

“The old Countess!” he exclaimed, seized with terror. 

Chekalinsky gathered up his winnings. For some time, 
Hermann remained perfectly motionless. When at last he 
left the table, there was a general commotion in the room. 

“Splendidly punted!” said the players. Chekalinsky 
shuffled the cards afresh, and the game went on as usual. 

Hermann went out of his mind, and is now confined in 
room Number 17 of the Obukhov Hospital. He never an¬ 
swers any questions, but he constantly mutters with unusual 
rapidity: “Three, seven, ace!” “Three, seven, queen!” 

Lizaveta Ivanovna has married a very amiable young 
man, a son of the former steward of the old Countess. He 
is in the service of the State somewhere, and is in receipt 
of a good income. Lizaveta is also supporting a poor rela¬ 
tive. 

Tomsky has been promoted to the rank of captain, and 
has become the husband of the Princess Pauline. 


THE CLOAK 

By Nikolay V. Gogol 


I N the department of-, but it is better not to mention 

the department. The touchiest things in the world are 
departments, regiments, courts of justice, in a word, all 
branches of public service. Each individual nowadays 
thinks all society insulted in his person. Quite recently, a 
complaint was received from a district chief of police in 
which he plainly demonstrated that all the imperial institu¬ 
tions were going to the dogs, and that the Czar’s sacred name 
was being taken in vain; and in proof he appended to the 
complaint a romance, in which the district chief of police 
is made to appear about once in every ten pages, and some¬ 
times in a downright drunken condition. Therefore, in order 
to avoid all unpleasantness, it will be better to designate the 
department in question, as a certain department. 

So, in a certain department there was a certain official— 
not a very notable one, it must be allowed—short of stat¬ 
ure, somewhat pock-marked, red-haired, and mole-eyed, 
with a bald forehead, wrinkled cheeks, and a complexion of 
the kind known as sanguine. The St. Petersburg climate 
was responsible for this. As for his official rank—with us 
Russians the rank comes first—he was what is called a per¬ 
petual titular councillor, over which, as is well known, some 
writers make merry and crack their jokes, obeying the 
praiseworthy custom of attacking those who cannot bite 
back. 

His family name was Bashmachkin. This name is evi¬ 
dently derived from bashmak (shoe); but, when, at what 
time, and in what manner, is not known. His father and 
grandfather, and all the Bashmachkins, always wore boots, 
which were resoled two or three times a year. His name 
was Akaky Akakiyevich. It may strike the reader as rather 
singular and far-fetched; but he may rest assured that it 
was by no means far-fetched, and that the circumstances 

29 



30 BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 

were such that it would have been impossible to give him any 
other. 

This was how it came about. 

Akaky Akakiyevich was born, if my memory fails me not, 
in the evening on the 23rd of March. His mother, the wife 
of a Government official, and a very fine woman, made all 
due arrangements for having the child baptised. She was 
lying on the bed opposite the door; on her right stood the 
godfather, Ivan Ivanovich Eroshkin, a most estimable man, 
who served as the head clerk of the senate; and the god¬ 
mother, Arina Semyonovna Bielobrinshkova, the wife of an 
officer of the quarter, and a woman of rare virtues. They 
offered the mother her choice of three names, Mokiya, Sos- 
siya, or that the child should be called after the martyr 
Khozdazat. “No,” said the good woman, “all those names 
are poor.” In order to please her, they opened the calendar 
at another place; three more names appeared, Triphily, 
Dula, and Varakhasy. “This is awful,” said the old woman. 
“What names! I truly never heard the like. I might have 
put up with Varadat or Varukh, but not Triphily and Varak¬ 
hasy! ” They turned to another page and found Pavsikakhy 
and Vakhtisy. “Now I see,” said the old woman, “that it 
is plainly fate. And since such is the case, it will be better 
to name him after his father. His father’s name was Akaky, 
so let his son’s name be Akaky too.” In this manner he 
became Akaky Akakiyevich. They christened the child, 
whereat he wept, and made a grimace, as though he foresaw 
that he was to be a titular councillor. 

In this manner did it all come about. We have mentioned 
it in order that the reader might see for himself that it was 
a case of necessity, and that it was utterly impossible to 
give him any other name. 

When and how he entered the department, and who ap¬ 
pointed him, no one could remember. However much the 
directors and chiefs of all kinds were changed, he was al¬ 
ways to be seen in the same place, the same attitude, the 
same occupation—always the letter-copying clerk—so that 
it was afterwards affirmed that he had been born in uni¬ 
form with a bald head. No respect was shown him in the 
department. The porter not only did not rise from his 


THE CLOAK 


3i 


seat when he passed, but never even glanced at him, any 
more than if a fly had flown through the reception-room. 
His superiors treated him in coolly despotic fashion. Some 
insignificant assistant to the head clerk would thrust a pa¬ 
per under his nose without so much as saying, “Copy,” or, 
“Here’s an interesting little case,” or anything else agree¬ 
able, as is customary amongst well-bred officials. And he 
took it, looking only at the paper, and not observing who 
handed it to him, or whether he had the right to do so; 
simply tobk it, and set about copying it. 

The young officials laughed at and made fun of him, so 
far as their official wit permitted; told in his presence vari¬ 
ous stories concocted about him, and about his landlady, an 
old woman of seventy; declared that she beat him; asked 
when the wedding was to be; and strewed bits of paper 
over his head, calling them snow. But Akaky Akakieyvich 
answered not a word, any more than if there had been no one 
there besides himself. It even had no effect upon his work. 
Amid all these annoyances he never made a single mistake 
in a letter. But if the joking became wholly unbearable, 
as when they jogged his head, and prevented his attending 
to his work, he would exclaim: 

“Leave me alone! Why do you insult me?” 

And there was something strange in the words and the 
voice in which they were uttered. There was in it some¬ 
thing which moved to pity; so much so that one young 
man, a newcomer, who, taking pattern by the others, had 
permitted himself to make sport of Akaky, suddenly stopped 
short, as though all about him had undergone a transfor¬ 
mation, and presented itself in a different aspect. Some un¬ 
seen force repelled him from the comrades whose acquain¬ 
tance he had made, on the supposition that they were de¬ 
cent, well-bred men. Long afterwards, in his gayest mo¬ 
ments, there recurred to his mind the little official with the 
bald forehead, with his heart-rending words, “Leave me 
alone! Why do you insult me?” In these moving words, 
other words resounded—“I am thy brother.” And the 
young man covered his face with his hand; and many a time 
afterwards, in the course of his life, shuddered at seeing 
how much inhumanity there is in man, how much savage 


3 2 


BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 


coarseness is concealed beneath refined, cultured, worldly re¬ 
finement, and even, O God! in that man whom the world 
acknowledges as honourable and upright. 

It would be difficult to find another man who lived so 
entirely for his duties. It is not enough to say that Akaky 
laboured with zeal; no, he laboured with love. In his copy¬ 
ing, he found a varied and agreeable employment. Enjoy¬ 
ment was written on his face; some letters were even fa¬ 
vourites with him; and when he encountered these, he 
smiled, winked, and worked with his lips, till it seemed as 
though each letter might be read in his face, as his pen 
traced it. If his pay had been in proportion to his zeal, 
he would, perhaps, to his great surprise, have been made 
even a councillor of state. But he worked, as his compan¬ 
ions, the wits, put it, like a horse in a mill. 

However, it would be untrue to say that no attention 
was paid to him. One director being a kindly man, and 
desirous of rewarding him for his long service, ordered him 
to be given something more important than mere copying. 
So he was ordered to make a report of an already concluded 
affair, to another department; the duty consisting simply 
in changing the heading and altering a few words from the 
first to the third person. This caused him so much toil, that 
he broke into a perspiration, rubbed his forehead, and finally 
said, “No, give me rather something to copy.” After that 
they let him copy on forever. 

Outside this copying, it appeared that nothing existed for 
him. He gave no thought to his clothes. His uniform was 
not green, but a sort of rusty-meal colour. The collar was 
low, so that his neck, in spite of the fact that it was not 
long, seemed inordinately so as it emerged from it, like the 
necks of the plaster cats which pedlars carry about on 
their heads. And something was always sticking to his 
uniform, either a bit of hay or some trifle. Moreover, he 
had a peculiar knack, as he walked along the street, of ar¬ 
riving beneath a window just as all sorts of rubbish was 
being flung out of it; hence he always bore about on his hat 
scraps of melon rinds, and other such articles. Never once 
in his life did he give heed to what was going on every day 
in the street; while it is well known that his young brother 


THE CLOAK 


33 


officials trained the range of their glances till they could see 
when any one’s trouser-straps came undone upon the oppo¬ 
site sidewalk, which always brought a malicious smile 'to 
their faces. But Akaky Akakiyevich saw in all things the 
clean, even strokes of his written lines; and only when a 
horse thrust his nose, from some unknown quarter, over his 
shoulder, and sent a whole gust of wind down his neck from 
his nostrils, did he observe that he was not in the middle 
of a line, but in the middle of the street. 

On reaching home, he sat down at once at the table, 
sipped his cabbage-soup up quickly, and swallowed a bit of 
beef with onions, never noticing their taste, and gulping 
down everything with flies and anything else which the 
Lord happened to send at the moment. When he saw that 
his stomach was beginning to swell, he rose from the table, 
and copied papers which he had brought home. If there 
happened to be none, he took copies for himself, for his own 
gratification, especially if the document was noteworthy, not 
on account of its style, but of its being addressed to some 
distinguished person. 

Even at the hour when the grey St. Petersburg sky had 
quite disappeared, and all the official world had eaten or 
dined, each as he could, in accordance with the salary he 
received and his own fancy; when all were resting from 
the department jar of pens, running to and fro, for their 
own and other people’s indispensable occupations, and from 
all the work that an uneasy man makes willingly for him¬ 
self, rather than what is necessary; when officials hasten 
to dedicate to pleasure the time which is left to them, one 
bolder than the rest going to the theatre; another, into 
the street looking under the bonnets; another wasting his 
evening in compliments to some pretty girl, the star of a 
small official circle; another—and this is the common case 
of all—visiting his comrades on the third or fourth floor, in 
two small rooms with an ante-room or kitchen, and some pre¬ 
tensions to fashion, such as a lamp or some other trifle which 
has cost many a sacrifice of dinner or pleasure trip; in a 
word, at the hour when all officials disperse among the 
contracted quarters of their friends, to play whist, as they 
sip their tea from glasses with a kopek’s worth of sugar, 


34 


BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 


smoke long pipes, relate at time some bits of gossip which 
a Russian man can never, under any circumstances, refrain 
from, and when there is nothing else to talk of, repeat eter¬ 
nal anecdotes about the commandant to whom they had 
sent word that the tails of the horses on the Falconet Monu¬ 
ment had been cut off; when all strive to divert themselves, 
Akaky Akakiyevich indulged in no kind of diversion. No 
one could even say that he had seen him at any kind of 
evening party. Having written to his heart’s content, he 
lay down to sleep, smiling at the thought of the coming 
day—of what God might send him to copy on the morrow. 

Thus flowed on the peaceful life of the man, who, with a 
salary of four hundred rubles, understood how to be content 
with his lot; and thus it would have continued to flow on, 
perhaps, to extreme old age, were it not that there are 
various ills strewn along the path of life for titular coun¬ 
cillors as well as for private, actual, court, and every other 
species of councillor, even to those who never give any 
advice or take any themselves. 

There exists in St. Petersburg, a powerful foe of all who 
receive a salary of four hundred rubles a year, or there¬ 
abouts. This foe is no other than the Northern cold, 
although it is said to be very healthy. At nine o’clock in 
the morning, at the very hour when the streets are filled 
with men bound for the various official departments, it 
begins to bestow such powerful and piercing nips on all 
noses impartially, that the poor officials really do not know 
what to do with them. At an hour when the foreheads of 
even those who occupy exalted positions ache with the 
cold, and tears start to their eyes, the poor titular coun¬ 
cillors are sometimes quite unprotected. Their only salva¬ 
tion lies in traversing as quickly as possible, in their thin 
little cloaks, five or six streets, and then warming their 
feet in the porter’s room, and so thawing all their talents 
and qualifications for official service, which had become 
frozen on the way. 

Akaky Akakiyevich had felt for some time that his back 
and shoulders were paining with peculiar poignancy, in 
spite of the fact that he tried to traverse the distance with 
all possible speed. He began finally to wonder whether 


THE CLOAK 


35 


the fault did not lie in his cloak. He examined it thor¬ 
oughly at home, and discovered that in two places, namely, 
on the back and shoulders, it had become thin as gauze. 
The cloth was worn to such a degree that he could see 
through it, and the lining had fallen into pieces. You must 
know that Akaky Akakiy evich’s cloak served as an object 
of ridicule to the officials. They even refused it the noble 
name of cloak, and called it a cape. In fact, it was of 
singular make, its collar diminishing year by year to serve 
to patch its other parts. The patching did not exhibit 
great skill on the part of the tailor, and was, in fact, baggy 
and ugly. Seeing how the matter stood, Akaky Akakiyevich 
decided that it would be necessary to take the cloak to 
Petrovich, the tailor, who lived somewhere on the fourth 
floor up a dark staircase, and who, in spite of his having 
but one eye and pock-marks all over his face, busied himself 
with considerable success in repairing the trousers and coats 
of officials and others; that is to say, when he was sober 
and not nursing some other scheme in his head. 

It is not necessary to say much about this tailor, but as 
it is the custom to have the character of each personage in 
a novel clearly defined there is no help for it, so here is 
Petrovich the tailor. At first he was called only Grigory, 
and was some gentleman’s serf. He commenced calling 
himself Petrovich from the time when he received his free 
papers, and further began to drink heavily on all holidays, 
at first on the great ones, and then on all church festivals 
without discrimination, wherever a cross stood in the cal¬ 
endar. On this point he was faithful to ancestral custom; 
and when quarrelling with his wife, he called her a low 
female and a German. As we have mentioned his wife, it 
will be necessary to say a word or two about her. Un¬ 
fortunately, little is known of her beyond the fact that 
Petrovich had a wife, who wore a cap and a dress, but 
could not lay claim to beauty, at least, no one but the 
soldiers of the guard even looked under her cap when they 
met her. 

Ascending the staircase which led to Petrovich’s room— 
which staircase was all soaked with dish-water and reeked 
with the smell of spirits which affects the eyes, and is an 


36 


BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 


inevitable adjunct to all dark stairways in St. Petersburg 
houses—ascending the stairs, Akaky Akakiyevich pondered 
how much Petrovich would ask, and mentally resolved not 
to give more than two rubles. The door was open, for the 
mistress, in cooking some fish, had raised such a smoke 
in the kitchen that not even the beetles were visible. Akaky 
Akakiyevich passed through the kitchen unperceived, even 
by the housewife, and at length reached a room where he 
beheld Petrovich seated on a large unpainted table, with 
his legs tucked under him like a Turkish pasha. His feet 
were bare, after the fashion of tailors as they sit at work; 
and the first thing which caught the eye was his thumb, with 
a deformed nail thick and strong as a turtle’s shell. About 
Petrovich’s neck hung a skein of silk and thread, and upon 
his knees lay some old garment. He had been trying 
unsuccessfully for three minutes to thread his needle, and 
was enraged at the darkness and even at the thread, growling 
in a low voice, “It won’t go through, the barbarian! you 
pricked me, you rascal!” 

Akaky Akakiyevich was vexed at arriving at the precise 
moment when Petrovich was angry. He liked to order 
something of Petrovich when he was a little downhearted, 
or, as his wife expressed it, “when he had settled himself 
with brandy, the one-eyed devil!” Under such circum¬ 
stances Petrovich generally came down in his price very 
readily, and even bowed and returned thanks. Afterwards, 
to be sure, his wife would come, complaining that her hus¬ 
band had been drunk, and so had fixed the price too low; 
but, if only a ten-kopek piece were added then the matter 
would be settled. But now it appeared that Petrovich was 
in a sober condition, and therefore rough, taciturn, and 
inclined to demand, Satan only knows what price. Akaky 
Akakiyevich felt this, and would gladly have beat a re¬ 
treat, but he was in for it. Petrovich screwed up his one 
eye very intently at him, and Akaky Akakiyevich involun¬ 
tarily said, “How do you do, Petrovich?” 

“I wish you a good morning, sir,” said Petrovich squint¬ 
ing at Akaky Akakiyevich’s hands, to see what sort of booty 
he had brought. 

“Ah! I—to you, Petrovich, this—” It must be known 


THE CLOAK 


37 


that Akaky Akakiyevich expressed himself chiefly by prepo¬ 
sitions, adverbs, and scraps of phrases which had no mean¬ 
ing whatever. If the matter was a very difficult one, he 
had a habit of never completing his sentences, so that fre¬ 
quently, having begun a phrase with the words, “This, in 
fact, is quite—” he forgot to go on, thinking he had already 
finished it. 

“What is it?” asked Petrovich, and with his one eye 
scanned Akaky Akakiyevich’s whole uniform from the col¬ 
lar down to the cuffs, the back, the tails and the button¬ 
holes, all of which were well known to him, since they 
were his own handiwork. Such is the habit of tailors; it 
is the first thing they do on meeting one. 

“But I, here, this—Petrovich—a cloak, cloth—here you 
see, everywhere, in different places, it is quite strong—it is 
a little dusty and looks old, but it is new, only here in 
one place it is a little—on the back, and here on one of 
the shoulders, it is a little worn, yes, here on this shoulder 
it is a little—do you see? That is all. And a little 
work—” 

Petrovich took the cloak, spread it out, to begin with, on 
the table, looked at it hard, shook his head, reached out 
his hand to the window-sill for his snuff-box, adorned with 
the portrait of some general, though what general is un¬ 
known, for the place where the face should have been had 
been rubbed through by the finger and a square bit of 
paper had been pasted over it. Having taken a pinch of 
snuff, Petrovich held up the cloak, and inspected it against 
the light, and again shook his head. Then he turned it, lin¬ 
ing upwards, and shook his head once more. After which 
he again lifted the general-adorned lid v/ith its bit of pasted 
paper, and having stuffed his nose with snuff, closed and 
put away the snuff-box, and said finally, “No, it is im¬ 
possible to mend it. It is a wretched garment!” 

Akaky Akakiyevich’s heart sank at these words. 

“Why is it impossible, Petrovich?” he said, almost in 
the pleading voice of a child. “All that ails it is, that 
it is worn on the shoulders. You must have some 
pieces-” 

“Yes, patches could be found, patches are easily found,” 


38 


BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 


said Petrovich, “but there’s nothing to sew them to. The 
thing is completely rotten. If you put a needle to it— 
see, it will give way.” 

“Let it give way, and you can put on another patch 
at once.” 

“But there is nothing to put the patches on to. There’s 
no use in strengthening it. It is too far gone. It’s lucky 
that it’s cloth, for, if the wind were to blow, it would fly 
away.” 

“Well, strengthen it again. How this, in fact-” 

“No,” said Petrovich decisively, “there is nothing to be 
done with it. It’s a thoroughly bad job. You’d better, 
when the cold winter weather comes on, make yourself 
some gaiters out of it, because stockings are not warm. 
The Germans invented them in order to make more money.” 
Petrovich loved on all occasions to have a fling at the 
Germans. “But it is plain you must have*#, new cloak.” 

At the word “new” all grew dark before Akaky Akakiye- 
vich’s eyes, and everything in the room began to whirl 
round. The only thing he saw clearly was the general 
with the paper face on the lid of Petrovich’s snuff-box. “A 
new one?” said he, as if still in a dream. “Why, I have 
no money for that.” 

“Yes, a new one,” said Petrovich, with barbarous com¬ 
posure. 

“Well, if it came to a new one, how—it-” 

“You mean how much would it cost?” 

“Yes.” 

“Well, you would have to lay out a hundred and fifty 
or more,” said Petrovich, and pursed up his lips significantly. 
He liked to produce powerful effects, liked to stun utterly 
and suddenly, and then to glance sideways to see what face 
the stunned person would put on the matter. 

“A hundred and fifty rubles for a cloak!” shrieked poor 
Akaky Akakiyevich, perhaps for the first time in his life, 
for his voice had always been distinguished for softness. 

“Yes, sir,” said Petrovich, “for any kind of cloak. If 
you have a marten fur on the collar, or a silk-lined hood, 
it will mount up to two hundred.” 

“Petrovich, please,” said Akaky Akakiyevich in a beseech- 




THE CLOAK 


39 


ing tone, not hearing, and not trying to hear, Petrovich’s 
words, and disregarding all his “effects,” “some repairs, in 
order that it may wear yet a little longer.” 

“No, it would only be a waste of time and money,” said 
Petrovich. And Akaky Akakiyevich went away after these 
worths, utterly discouraged. But Petrovich stood for some 
time after his departure, with significantly compressed lips, 
and without betaking himself to his work, satisfied that he 
would not be dropped, and an artistic tailor employed. 

Akaky Akakiyevich went out into the street as if in a 
dream. “Such an affair!” he said to himself. “I did not 
think it had come to—” and then after a pause, he added, 
“Well, so it is! see what it has come to at last! and I 
never imagined that it was so!” Then followed a long 
silence, after which he exclaimed, “Well, so it is! see what 
already—nothing unexpected that—it would be nothing— 
what a strange circumstance!” So saying, instead of going 
home, he went in exactly the opposite direction without 
suspecting it. On the way, a chimney-sweep bumped 
up against him, and blackened his shoulder, and a whole 
hatful of rubbish landed on him from the top of a house 
which was building. He did not notice it, and only when 
he ran against a watchman, who, having planted his halberd 
beside him, was shaking some snuff from his box into his 
horny hand, did he recover himself a little, and that be¬ 
cause the watchman said, “Why are you poking yourself 
into a man’s very face? Haven’t you the pavement?” This 
caused him to look about him, and turn towards home. 

There only, he finally began to collect his thoughts, and 
to survey his position in its clear and actual light, and to 
argue with himself, sensibly and frankly, as with a rea¬ 
sonable friend, with whom one can discuss private and 
personal matters. “No,” said Akaky Akakiyevich, “it is 
impossible to reason with Petrovich now. He is that—evi¬ 
dently, his wife has been beating him. I’d better go to 
him on Sunday morning. After Saturday night he will 
be a little cross-eyed and sleepy, for he will want to get 
drunk, and his wife won’t give him any money, and at 
such a time, a ten-kopek piece in his hand will—he will 
become more fit to reason with, and then the cloak and 


40 


BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 


that-” Thus argued Akaky Akakiyevich with himself, 

regained his courage, and waited until the first Sunday, 
when, seeing from afar that Petrovich’s wife had left the 
house, he went straight to him. 

Petrovich’s eye was indeed very much askew after Satur¬ 
day. His head drooped, and he was very sleepy; but for 
all that, as soon as he knew what it was a question of, it 
seemed as though Satan jogged his memory. “Impossible,” 
said he. “Please to order a new one.” Thereupon Akaky 
Akakiyevich handed over the ten-kopek piece. “Thank 
you, sir. I will drink your good health,” said Petrovich. 
“But as for the cloak, don’t trouble yourself about it; it 
is good for nothing. I will make you a capital new one, 
so let us settle about it now.” 

Akaky Akakiyevich was still for mending it, but Petrovich 
would not hear of it, and said, “I shall certainly have 
to make you a new one, and you may depend upon it 
that I shall do my best. It may even be, as the fashion 
goes, that the collar can be fastened by silver hooks under 
a flap.” 

Then Akaky Akakiyevich saw that it was impossible to 
get along without a new cloak, and his spirit sank utterly. 
How, in fact, was it to be done? Where was the money 
to come from? He must have some new trousers, and pay 
a debt of long standing to the shoemaker for putting new 
tops to his old boots, and he must order three shirts from 
the seamstress, and a couple of pieces of linen. In short, all 
his money must be spent. And even if the director should 
be so kind as to order him to receive forty-five or even 
fifty rubles instead of forty, it would be a mere nothing, 
a mere drop in the ocean towards the funds necessary for 
a cloak, although he knew that Petrovich was often wrong¬ 
headed enough to blurt out some outrageous price, so that 
even his own wife could not refrain from exclaiming, “Have 
you lost your senses, you fool?” At one time he would 
not work at any price, and now it was quite likely that 
he had named a higher sum than the cloak would cost. 

But although he knew that Petrovich would undertake 
to make a cloak for eighty rubles, still, where was he to 
get the eighty rubles from? He might possibly manage 



THE CLOAK 


4i 


half. Yes, half might be procured, but where was the 
other half to come from? But the reader must first be 
told where the first half came from. 

Akaky Akakiyevich had a habit of putting, for every 
ruble he spent, a groschen into a small box, fastened with 
lock and key, and with a slit in the top for the reception 
of money. At the end of every half-year he counted over 
the heap of coppers, and changed it for silver. This he 
had done for a long time, and in the course of years, the 
sum had mounted up to over forty rubles. Thus he had 
one half on hand. But where was he to find the other 
half? Where was he to get another forty rubles from? 
Akaky Akakiyevich thought and thought, and decided that 
it would be necessary to curtail his ordinary expenses, for 
the space of one year at least, to dispense with tea in 
the evening, to burn no candles, and, if there was anything 
which he must do, to go into his landlady’s room, and 
work by her light. When he went into the street, he must 
walk as lightly as he could, and as cautiously, upon the 
stones, almost upon tiptoe, in order not to wear his heels 
down in too short a time. He must give the laundress as 

little to wash as possible; and, in order not to wear out 

his clothes, he must take them off as soon as he got home, 
and wear only his cotton dressing-gown, which had been 
long and carefully saved. 

To tell the truth, it was a little hard for him at first to 
accustom himself to these deprivations. But he got used 
to them at length, after a fashion, and all went smoothly. 
He even got used to being hungry in the evening, but he 

made up for it by treating himself, so to say, in spirit, by 

bearing ever in mind the idea of his future cloak. From 
that time forth, his existence seemed to become, in some 
way, fuller, as if he were married, or as if some other man 
lived in him, as if, in fact, he were not alone, and some 
pleasant friend had consented to travel along life’s path with 
him, the friend being no other than the cloak, with thick 
wadding and a strong lining incapable of wearing out. He 
became more lively, and even his character grew firmer, 
like that of a man who has made up his mind, and set him¬ 
self a goal. From his face and gait, doubt and indecision, 


42 


BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 


all hesitating and wavering disappeared of themselves. Fire 
gleamed in his eyes, and occasionally the boldest and most 
daring ideas flitted through his mind. Why not, for in¬ 
stance, have marten fur on the collar? The thought of this 
almost made him absent-minded. Once, in copying a letter, 
he nearly made a mistake, so that he exclaimed almost 
aloud, “Ugh!” and crossed himself. Once, in the course 
of every month, he had a conference with Petrovich on the 
subject of the cloak, where it would be better to buy the 
cloth, and the colour, and the price. He always returned 
home satisfied, though troubled, reflecting that the time 
would come at last when it could all be bought, and then 
the cloak made. 

The affair progressed more briskly than he had expected. 
For beyond all his hopes, the director awarded neither forty 
nor forty-five rubles for Akaky Akakiyevich’s share, but 
sixty. Whether he suspected that Akaky Akakiyevich 
needed a cloak, or whether it was merely chance, at all 
events, twenty extra rubles were by this means provided. 
This circumstance hastened matters. Two or three months 
more of hunger and Akaky Akakiyevich had accumulated 
about eighty rubles. His heart, generally so quiet, began 
to throb. On the first possible day, he went shopping in 
company with Petrovich. They bought some very good 
cloth, and at a reasonable rate too, for they had been con¬ 
sidering the matter for six months, and rarely let a month 
pass without their visiting the shops to enquire prices. 
Petrovich himself said that no better cloth could be had. 
For lining, they selected a cotton stuff, but so firm and 
thick, that Petrovich declared it to be better than silk, 
and even prettier and more glossy. They did not buy the 
marten fur, because it was, in fact, dear, but in its stead, 
they picked out the very best of cat-skin which could be 
found in the shop, and which might, indeed, be taken for 
marten at a distance. 

Petrovich worked at the cloak two whole weeks, for 
there was a great deal of quilting; otherwise it would have 
been finished sooner. He charged twelve rubles for the 
job, it could not possibly have been done for less. It was 
all sewed with silk, in small, double seams, and Petrovich 


THE CLOAK 


43 


went over each seam afterwards with his own teeth, stamp¬ 
ing in various patterns. 

It was—it is difficult to say precisely on what day, but 
probably the most glorious one in Akaky Akakiyevich’s life, 
when Petrovich at length brought home the cloak. He 
brought it in the morning, before the hour when it was 
necessary to start for the department. Never did a cloak 
arrive so exactly in the nick of time, for the severe cold 
had set in, and it seemed to threaten to increase. Petro¬ 
vich brought the cloak himself as befits a good tailor. On 
his countenance was a significant expression, such as Akaky 
Akakiyevich had never beheld there. He seemed fully 
sensible that he had done no small deed, and crossed a 
gulf separating tailors who put in linings, and execute re¬ 
pairs, from those who make new things. He took the cloak 
out of the pocket-handkerchief in which he had brought it. 
The handkerchief was fresh from the laundress, and he 
put it in his pocket for use. Taking out the cloak, he 
gazed proudly at it, held it up with both hands, and flung 
it skilfully over the shoulders of Akaky Akakiyevich. Then 
he pulled it and fitted it down behind with his hand, and 
he draped it around Akaky Akakiyevich without buttoning 
it. Akaky Akakiyevich, like an experienced man, wished 
to try the sleeves. Petrovich helped him on with them, and 
it turned out that the sleeves were satisfactory also. In 
short, the cloak appeared to be perfect, and most season¬ 
able. Petrovich did not neglect to observe that it was 
only because he lived in a narrow street, and had no 
signboard, and had known Akaky Akakiyevich so long, that 
he had made it so cheaply; but that if he had been in busi¬ 
ness on the Nevsky Prospect, he would have charged sev¬ 
enty-five rubles for the making alone. Akaky Akakiyevich 
did not care to argue this point with Petrovich. He paid 
him, thanked him, and set out at once in his new cloak for 
the department. Petrovich followed him, and pausing in 
the street, gazed long at the cloak in the distance, after 
which he went to one side expressly to run through a crooked 
alley, and emerge again into the street beyond to gaze once 
more upon the cloak from another point, namely, directly 
in front. 


44 


BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 


Meantime Akaky Akakiyevich went on in holiday mood. 
He was conscious every second of the time that he had 
a new cloak on his shoulders, and several times he laughed 
with internal satisfaction. In fact, there were two 
advantages, one was its warmth, the other its beauty. He 
saw nothing of the road, but suddenly found himself at 
the department. He took off his cloak in the ante-room, 
looked it over carefully, and confided it to the special care 
of the attendant. It is impossible to say precisely how it 
was that every one in the department knew at once that 
Akaky Akakiyevich had a new cloak, and that the “cape” 
no longer existed. All rushed at the same moment into the 
ante-room to inspect it. They congratulated him, and said 
pleasant things to him, so that he began at first to smile, 
and then to grow ashamed. When all surrounded him, and 
said that the new cloak must be “christened,” and that 
he must at least give them all a party, Akaky Akakiyevich 
lost his head completely, and did not know where he stood, 
what to answer, or how to get out of it. He stood blushing 
all over for several minutes, trying to assure them with great 
simplicity that it was not a new cloak, that it was in fact 
the old “cape.” 

At length one of the officials, assistant to the head clerk, 
in order to show that he was not at all proud, and on good 
terms with his inferiors, said: 

“So be it, only I will give the party instead of Akaky 
Akakiyevich; I invite you all to tea with me to-night. It 
just happens to be my name-day too.” 

The officials naturally at once offered the assistant clerk 
their congratulations, and accepted the invitation with 
pleasure. Akaky Akakiyevich would have declined; but all 
declared that it was discourteous, that it was simply a sin 
and a shame, and that he could not possibly refuse. Be¬ 
sides, the notion became pleasant to him when he recollected 
that he should thereby have a chance of wearing his new 
cloak in the evening also. 

That whole day was truly a most triumphant festival for 
Akaky Akakiyevich. He returned home in the most happy 
frame of mind, took off his cloak, and hung it carefully 
on the wall, admiring afresh the cloth and the lining. Then 


THE CLOAK 


45 


he brought out his old, worn-out cloak, for comparison. He 
looked at it, and laughed, so vast was the difference. And 
long after dinner he laughed again when the condition of 
the “cape” recurred to his mind. He dined cheerfully, and 
after dinner wrote nothing, but took his ease for a while 
on the bed, until it got dark. Then he dressed himself 
leisurely, put on his cloak, and stepped out into the street. 

Where the host lived, unfortunately we cannot say. Our 
memory begins to fail us badly. The houses and streets in 
St. Petersburg have become so mixed up in our head that 
it is very difficult to get anything out of it again in proper 
form. This much is certain, that the official lived in the 
best part of the city; and therefore it must have been 
anything but near to Akaky Akakiyevich’s residence. 
Akaky Akakiyevich was first obliged to traverse a kind of 
wilderness of deserted, dimly-lighted streets. But in pro¬ 
portion as he approached the official’s quarter of the city, 
the streets became more lively, more populous, and more 
brilliantly illuminated. Pedestrians began to appear; hand¬ 
somely dressed ladies were more frequently encountered; the 
men had otter skin collars to their coats; shabby sleigh-men 
with their wooden, railed sledges stuck over with brass¬ 
headed nails, became rarer; whilst on the other hand, more 
and more drivers in red velvet caps, lacquered sledges and 
bear-skin coats began to appear, and carriages with rich 
hammer-cloths flew swiftly through the streets, their wheels 
scrunching the snow. 

Akaky Akakiyevich gazed upon all this as upon a novel 
sight. He had not been in the streets during the evening 
for years. He halted out of curiosity before a shop-window, 
to look at a picture representing a handsome woman, who 
had thrown off her shoe, thereby baring her whole foot in 
a very pretty way; whilst behind her the head of a man 
with whiskers and a handsome moustache peeped through 
the doorway of another room. Akaky Akakiyevich shook 
his head, and laughed, and then went on his way. Why 
did he laugh? Either because he had met with a thing 
utterly unknown, but for which every one cherishes, never¬ 
theless, some sort of feeling, or else he thought, like many 
officials, “Well, those French! What is to be said? If 


46 


BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 


they do go in for anything of that sort, why-” But 

possibly he did not think at all. 

Akaky Akakiyevich at length reached the house in which 
the head clerk’s assistant lodged. He lived in fine style. 
The staircase was lit by a lamp, his apartment being on 
the second floor. On entering the vestibule, Akaky Akakiye¬ 
vich beheld a whole row of goloshes on the floor. Among 
them, in the centre of the room, stood a samovar, humming 
and emitting clouds of steam. On the walls hung all sorts 
of coats and cloaks, among which there were even some 
with beaver collars, or velvet facings. Beyond, the buzz of 
conversation was audible, and became clear and loud, when 
the servant came out with a trayful of empty glasses, cream- 
jugs and sugar-bowls. It was evident that the officials had 
arrived long before, and had already finished their first 
glass of tea. 

Akaky Akakiyevich, having hung up his own cloak, en¬ 
tered the inner room. Before him all at once .appeared 
lights, officials, pipes, and card-tables, and he was bewil¬ 
dered by a sound of rapid conversation rising from all the 
tables, and the noise of moving chairs. He halted very 
awkwardly in the middle of the room, wondering what he 
ought to do. But they had seen him. They received him 
with a shout, and all thronged at once into the ante-room, 
and there took another look at his cloak. Akaky Akakiye¬ 
vich, although somewhat confused, was frank-hearted, and 
could not refrain from rejoicing when he saw how they 
praised his cloak. Then, of course, they all dropped him 
and his cloak, and returned, as was proper, to the tables 
set out for whist. 

All this, the noise, the talk, and the throng of people, 
was rather overwhelming to Akaky Akakiyevich. He simply 
did not know where he stood, or where to put his hands, 
his feet, and his whole body. Finally he sat down by the 
players, looked at the cards, gazed at the face of one and 
another, and after a while began to gape, and to feel that 
it was wearisome, the more so, as the hour was already 
long past when he usually went to bed. He wanted to 
take leave of the host, but they would not let him go, say¬ 
ing that he must not fail to drink a glass of champagne, in 



THE CLOAK 


47 


honour of his new garment. In the course of an hour, supper, 
consisting of vegetable salad, cold veal, pastry, confectioner’s 
pies, and champagne, was served. They made Akaky 
Akakiyevich drink two glasses of champagne, after which 
he felt things grow livelier. 

Still, he could not forget that it was twelve o’clock, and 
that he should have been at home long ago. In order that 
the host might not think of some excuse for detaining him, 
he stole out of the room quickly, sought out, in the ante¬ 
room, his cloak, which, to his sorrow, he found lying on 
the floor, brushed it, picked off every speck upon it, put 
it on his shoulders, and descended the stairs to the street. 

In the street all was still bright. Some petty shops, those 
permanent clubs of servants and all sorts of folks, were 
open. Others were shut, but, nevertheless, showed a streak 
of light the whole length of the door-crack, indicating that 
they were not yet free of company, and that probably some 
domestics, male and female, were finishing their stories and 
conversations, whilst leaving their masters in complete igno¬ 
rance as to their whereabouts. Akaky Akakiyevich went on 
in a happy frame of mind. He even started to run, without 
knowing why, after some lady, who flew past like a flash of 
lightning. But he stopped short, and went on very quietly 
as before, wondering why he had quickened his pace. Soon 
there spread before him those deserted streets which are not 
cheerful in the daytime, to say nothing of the evening. Now 
they were even more dim and lonely. The lanterns began 
to grow rarer, oil, evidently, had been less liberally supplied. 
Then came wooden houses and fences. Not a soul any¬ 
where; only the snow sparkled in the streets, and mourn¬ 
fully veiled the low-roofed cabins with their closed shutters. 
He approached the spot where the street crossed a vast 
square with houses barely visible on its farther side, a 
square which seemed a fearful desert. 

Afar, a tiny spark glimmered from some watchman’s-box, 
which seemed to stand on the edge of the world. Akaky 
Akakiyevich’s cheerfulness diminished at this point in a 
marked degree. He entered the square, not without an in¬ 
voluntary sensation of fear, as though his heart warned him 
of some evil. He glanced back, and on both sides it was 


48 


BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 


like a sea about him. “No, it is better not to look,” he 
thought, and went on, closing his eyes. When he opened 
them, to see whether he was near the end of the square, 
he suddenly beheld, standing just before his very nose, 
some bearded individuals of precisely what sort, he could 
not make out. All grew dark before his eyes, and his heart 
throbbed. 

“Of course, the cloak is mine!” said one of them in a 
loud voice, seizing hold of his collar. Akaky Akakiyevich 
was about to shout “Help!” when the second man thrust a 
fist, about the size of an official’s head, at his very mouth, 
muttering, “Just you dare to scream!” 

Akaky Akakiyevich felt them strip off his cloak, and give 
him a kick. He fell headlong upon the snow, and felt no 
more. 

In a few minutes he recovered consciousness, and rose to 
his feet, but no one was there. He felt that it was cold in 
the square, and that his cloak was gone. He began to 
shout, but his voice did not appear to reach the outskirts of 
the square. In despair, but without ceasing to shout, he 
started at a run across the square, straight towards the 
watch-box, beside which stood the watchman, leaning on his 
halberd, and apparently curious to know what kind of 
a customer was running towards him shouting. Akaky 
Akakiyevich ran up to him, and began in a sobbing voice 
to shout that he was asleep, and attended to nothing, and 
did not see when a man was robbed. The watchman re¬ 
plied that he had seen two men stop him in the middle of 
the square, but supposed that they were friends of his, and 
that, instead of scolding vainly, he had better go to the 
police on the morrow, so that they might make a search 
for whoever had stolen the cloak. 

Akaky Akakiyevich ran home and arrived in a state of 
complete disorder, his hair which grew very thinly upon 
his temples and the back of his head all tousled, his body, 
arms and legs, covered with snow. The old woman, who 
was mistress of his lodgings, on hearing a terrible knocking, 
sprang hastily from her be<d, and, with only one shoe on, 
ran to open the door, pressing the sleeve of her chemise to 
her bosom out of modesty. But when she had opened it, 


THE CLOAK 


49 


she fell back on beholding Akaky Akakiyevich in such a 
condition. When he told her about the affair, she clasped 
her hands, and said that he must go straight to the district 
chief of police, for his subordinate would turn up his nose, 
promise well, and drop the matter there. The very best 
thing to do, therefore, would be to go to the district chief, 
whom she knew, because Finnish Anna, her former cook, 
was now nurse at his house. She often saw him passing 
the house, and he was at church every Sunday, praying, but 
at the same time gazing cheerfully at everybody; so that 
he must be a good man, judging from all appearances. 
Having listened to this opinion, Akaky Akakiyevich betook 
himself sadly to his room. And how he spent the night 
there, any one who can put himself in another’s place may 
readily imagine. 

Early in the morning, he presented himself at the dis¬ 
trict chief’s, but was told the official was asleep. He went 
again at ten and was again informed that he was asleep. 
At eleven, and they said, “The superintendent is not at 
home.” At dinner time, and the clerks in the ante-room 
would not admit him on any terms, and insisted upon know¬ 
ing his business. So that at last, for once in his life, 
Akaky Akakiyevich felt an inclination to show some spirit, 
and said curtly that he must see the chief in person, that 
they ought not to presume to refuse him entrance, that he 
came from the department of justice, and that when he 
complained of them, they would see. 

The clerks dared make no reply to this, and one of them 
went to call the chief, who listened to the strange story of 
the theft of the coat. Instead of directing his attention to 
the principal points of the matter, he began to question 
Akaky Akakiyevich. W T hy was he going home so late? Was 
he in the habit of doing so, or had he been to some dis¬ 
orderly house? So that Akaky Akakiyevich got thoroughly 
confused, and left him, without knowing whether the affair 
of his cloak was in proper train or not. 

All that day, for the first time in his life, he never went 
near the department. The next day he made his appear¬ 
ance, very pale, and in his old cape, which had become 
even more shabby. The news of the robbery of the cloak 


50 


BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 


touched many, although there were some officials present 
who never lost an opportunity, even such a one as the 
present, of ridiculing Akaky Akakiyevich. They decided to 
make a collection for him on the spot, but the officials had 
already spent a great deal in subscribing for the director’s 
portrait, and for some book, at the suggestion of the head 
of that division, who was a friend of the author; and so the 
sum was trifling. 

One of them, moved by pity, resolved to help Akaky 
Akakiyevich with some good advice, at least, and told him 
that he ought not to go to the police, for although it might 
happen that a police-officer, wishing to win the approval of 
his superiors, might hunt up the cloak by some means, 
still, his cloak would remain in the possession of the police 
if he did not offer legal proof that it belonged to him. 
The best thing for him, therefore, would be to apply to a 
certain prominent personage; since this prominent person¬ 
age, by entering into relation with the proper persons, could 
greatly expedite the matter. 

As there was nothing else to be done, Akaky Akakiyevich 
decided to go to the prominent personage. What was the 
exact official position of the prominent personage, remains 
unknown to this day. The reader must know that the 
prominent personage had but recently become a prominent 
personage, having up to that time been only an insignificant 
person. Moreover, his present position was not considered 
prominent in comparison with others still more so. But 
there is always a circle of people to whom what is insig¬ 
nificant in the eyes of others, is important enough. More¬ 
over, he strove to increase his importance by sundry de¬ 
vices. For instance, he managed to have the inferior officials 
meet him on the staircase when he entered upon his service; 
no one was to presume to come directly to him, but the 
strictest etiquette must be observed; the collegiate recorder 
must make a report to the government secretary, the govern¬ 
ment secretary to the titular councillor, or whatever other 
man was proper, and all business must come before him in 
this manner. In Holy Russia, all is thus contaminated 
with the love of imitation; every man imitates and copies 
his superior. They even say that a certain titular coun- 


THE CLOAK 


5i 


cillor, when promoted to the head of some small separate 
office, immediately partitioned off a private room for him¬ 
self, called it the audience chamber, and posted at the door 
a lackey with red collar and braid, who grasped the handle 
of the door, and opened to all comers, though the audience 
chamber would hardly hold an ordinary writing table. 

The manners and customs of the prominent personage 
were grand and imposing, but rather exaggerated. The 
main foundation of his system was strictness. “Strictness, 
strictness, and always strictness!” he generally said; and 
at the last word he looked significantly into the face of 
the person to whom he spoke. But there was no necessity 
for this, for the halfscore of subordinates, who formed the 
entire force of the office, were properly afraid. On catch¬ 
ing sight of him afar off, they left their work, and waited, 
drawn up in line, until he had passed through the room. 
His ordinary converse with his inferiors smacked of stern¬ 
ness, and consisted chiefly of three phrases: “How dare 
you?” “Do you know whom you are speaking to?” “Do 
you realise who is standing before you?” 

Otherwise he was a very kind-hearted man, good to his 
comrades, and ready to oblige. But the rank of general 
threw him completely off his balance. On receiving any 
one of that rank, he became confused, lost his way, as it 
were, and never knew what to do. If he chanced to be 
amongst his equals, he was still a very nice kind of man, 
a very good fellow in many respects, and not stupid, but 
the very moment that he found himself in the society of 
people but one rank lower than himself, he became silent. 
And his situation aroused sympathy, the more so, as he 
felt himself that he might have been making an incom¬ 
parably better use of his time. In his eyes, there was some¬ 
times visible a desire to join some interesting conversation 
or group, but he was kept back by the thought, “Would 
it not be a very great condescension on his part? Would 
it not be familiar? And would he not thereby lose his 
importance?” And in consequence of such reflections, he 
always remained in the same dumb state, uttering from time 
to time a few monosyllabic sounds, and thereby earning 
the name of the most wearisome of men. 


52 


BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 


To this prominent personage Akaky Akakiyevich pre¬ 
sented himself, and this at the most unfavourable time for 
himself, though opportune for the prominent personage. 
The prominent personage was in his cabinet, conversing 
very gaily with an old acquaintance and companion of his 
childhood, whom he had not seen for several years, and 
who had just arrived, when it was announced to him that 
a person named Bashmachkin had come. He asked 
abruptly, “Who is he?”—“Some official,” he was informed. 
“Ah, he can wait! This is no time for him to call,” said 
the important man. 

It must be remarked here that the important man lied 
outrageously. He had said all he had to say to his friend 
long before, and the conversation had been interspersed for 
some time with very long pauses, during which they merely 
slapped each other on the leg, and said, “You think so, 
Ivan Abramovich!” “Just so, Stepan Varlamovich!’*' 
Nevertheless, he ordered that the official should be kept 
waiting, in order to show his friend, a man who had not 
been in the service for a long time, but had lived at home 
in the country, how long officials had to wait in his ante¬ 
room. 

At length, having talked himself completely out, and 
more than that, having had his fill of pauses, and smoked 
a cigar in a very comfortable arm-chair with reclining back, 
he suddenly seemed to recollect, and said to the secretary, 
who stood by the door with papers of reports, “So it seems 
that there is an official waiting to see me. Tell him that 
he may come in.” On perceiving Akaky Akakiyevich’s 
modest mien and his worn uniform, he turned abruptly to 
him, and said, “What do you want?” in a curt hard voice, 
which he had practised in his room in private, and before 
the looking-glass, for a whole week before being raised to 
his present rank. 

Akaky Akakiyevich, who was already imbued with a 
due amount of fear, became somewhat confused, and as 
well as his tongue would permit, explained, with a rather 
more frequent addition than usual of the word “that” that 
his cloak was quite new, and had been stolen in the most 
inhuman manner; that he had applied to him, in order that 


THE CLOAK 


53 


he might, in some way, by his intermediation—that he 
might enter into correspondence with the chief of police, 
and find the cloak. 

For some inexplicable reason, this conduct seemed familiar 
to the prominent personage. 

“What, my dear sir!” he said abruptly, “are you not 
acquainted with etiquette? To whom have you come? 
Don’t you know how such matters are managed? You 
should first have presented a petition to the office. It 
would have gone to the head of the department, then to 
the chief of the division, then it would have been handed 
over to the secretary, and the secretary would have given 
it to me.” 

“But, your excellency,” said Akaky Akakiyevich, trying 
to collect his small handful of wits, and conscious at the 
same time that he was perspiring terribly, “I, your excel¬ 
lency, presumed to trouble you because secretaries—are an 
untrustworthy race.” 

“What, what, what!” said the important personage. 
“Where did you get such courage? Where did you get 
such ideas? What impudence towards their chiefs and 
superiors has spread among the young generation!” The 
prominent personage apparently had not observed that 
Akaky Akakiyevich was already in the neighbourhood of 
fifty. If he could be called a young man, it must have 
been in comparison with some one who was seventy. “Do 
you know to whom you are speaking? Do you realise 
who is standing before you? Do you realise it? Do you 
realise it, I ask you!” Then he stamped his foot, and 
raised his voice to such a pitch that it would have frightened 
even a different man from Akaky Akakiyevich. 

Akaky Akakiyevich’s senses failed him. He staggered, 
trembled in every limb, and, if the porters had not run in 
to support him, would have fallen to the floor. They car¬ 
ried him out insensible. But the prominent personage, 
gratified that the effect should have surpassed his expec¬ 
tations, and quite intoxicated with the thought that his 
word could even deprive a man of his senses, glanced side¬ 
ways at his friend in order to see how he looked upon this, 
and perceived, not without satisfaction, that his friend was 


54 


BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 


in a most uneasy frame of mind, and even beginning on 
his part, to feel a trifle frightened. 

Akaky Akakiyevich could not remember how he de¬ 
scended the stairs, and got into the street. He felt neither 
his hands nor feet. Never in his life had he been so rated 
by any high official, let alone a strange one. He went 
staggering on through the snow-storm, which was blowing 
in the streets, with his mouth wide open. The wind, in St. 
Petersburg fashion, darted upon him from all quarters, 
and down every cross-street. In a twinkling it had blown 
a quinsy into his throat, and he reached home unable to 
utter a word. His throat was swollen, and he lay down 
on his bed. So powerful is sometimes a good scolding! 

The next day a violent fever developed. Thanks to the 
generous assistance of the St. Petersburg climate, the malady 
progressed more rapidly than could have been expected, 
and when the doctor arrived, he found, on feeling the sick 
man’s pulse, that there was nothing to be done, except to 
prescribe a poultice, so that the patient might not be left 
entirely without the beneficent aid of medicine. But at the 
same time, he predicted his end in thirty-six hours. After 
this he turned to the landlady, and said, “And as for you, 
don’t waste your time on him. Order his pine coffin now, 
for an oak one will be too expensive for him.” 

Did Akaky Akakiyevich hear these fatal words? And if 
he heard them, did they produce any overwhelming effect 
upon him? Did he lament the bitterness of his life?—We 
know not, for he continued in a delirious condition. Visions 
incessantly appeared to him, each stranger than the other. 
Now he saw Petrovich, and ordered him to make a cloak, 
with some traps for robbers, who seemed to him to be 
always under the bed; and he cried every moment to the 
landlady to pull one of them from under his coverlet. Then 
he inquired why his old mantle hung before him when he 
had a new cloak. Next he fancied that he was standing 
before the prominent person, listening to a thorough setting- 
down and saying, “Forgive me, your excellency!” but at 
last he began to curse, uttering the most horrible words, 
so that his aged landlady crossed herself, never in her life 
having heard anything of the kind from him, and more so, 


THE CLOAK 


55 


as these words followed directly after the words ' “your 
excellency.” Later on he talked utter nonsense, of which 
nothing could be made, all that was evident being that 
these incoherent words and thoughts hovered ever about 
one thing, his cloak. 

At length poor Akaky Akakiyevich breathed his last. 
They sealed up neither his room nor his effects, because, 
in the first place, there were no heirs, and, in the second, 
there was very little to inherit beyond a bundle of goose- 
quills, a quire of white official paper, three pairs of socks, 
two or three buttons which had burst off his trousers, and 
the mantle already known to the reader. To whom all this 
fell, God knows. I confess that the person who told me 
this tale took no interest in the matter. They carried Akaky 
Akakiyevich out, and buried him. 

And St. Petersburg was left without Akaky Akakiyevich, 
as though he had never lived there. A being disappeared, 
who was protected by none, dear to none, interesting to 
none, and who never even, attracted to himself the atten¬ 
tion of those students of human nature who omit no oppor¬ 
tunity of thrusting a pin through a common fly and examin¬ 
ing it under the microscope. A being who bore meekly the 
jibes of the department, and went to his grave without 
having done one unusual deed, but to whom, nevertheless, 
at the close of his life, appeared a bright visitant in the 
form of a cloak, which momentarily cheered his poor life, 
and upon him, thereafter, an intolerable misfortune de¬ 
scended, just as it descends upon the heads of the mighty 
of this world! 

Several days after his death, the porter was sent from 
the department to his lodgings, with an order for him to 
present himself there immediately, the chief commanding it. 
But the porter had to return unsuccessful, with the answer 
that he could not come; and to the question, “Why?” re¬ 
plied, “Well, because he is dead! he was buried four days 
ago.” In this manner did they hear of Akaky Akakiye- 
vich’s death at the department. And the next day a new 
official sat in his place, with a handwriting by no means 
so upright, but more inclined and slanting. 

But who could have imagined that this was not really the 


56 


BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 


end of Akaky Akakiyevich, that he was destined to raise 
a commotion after death, as if in compensation for his 
utterly insignificant life? But so it happened, and our 
poor story unexpectedly gains a fantastic ending. 

A rumour suddenly spread through St. Petersburg, that 
a dead man had taken to appearing on the Kalinkin Bridge, 
and its vicinity, at night in the form of an official seeking 
a stolen cloak, and that, under the pretext of its being 
the stolen cloak, he dragged, without regard to rank or 
calling, every one’s cloak from his shoulders, be it cat- 
skin, beaver, fox, bear, sable, in a word, every sort of fur 
and skin which men adopted for their covering. One of 
the department officials saw the dead man with his own 
eyes, and immediately recognised in him Akaky Akakiye- 
vich. This, however, inspired him with such terror, that 
he ran off with all his might, and therefore did not scan 
the dead man closely, but only saw how the latter threat¬ 
ened him from afar with his finger. Constant complaints 
poured in from all quarters, that the backs and shoulders, 
not only of titular but even of court councillors, were ex¬ 
posed to the danger of a cold, on account of the frequent 
dragging off of their cloaks. 

Arrangements were made by the police to catch the 
corpse, alive or dead, at any cost, and punish him as an 
example to others, in the most severe manner. In this 
they nearly succeeded, for a watchman, on guard in Kirinsh- 
kin Lane, caught the corpse by the collar on the very 
scene of his evil deeds, when attempting to pull off the 
frieze cloak of a retired musician. Having seized him by 
the collar, he summoned, with a shout, two of his com¬ 
rades, whom he enjoined to hold him fast, while he him¬ 
self felt for a moment in his boot, in order to draw out 
his snuff-box, and refresh his frozen nose. But the snuff 
was of a sort which even a corpse could not endure. The 
watchman having closed his right nostril with his finger, 
had no sooner succeeded in holding half a handful up to 
the left, than the corpse sneezed so violently that he com¬ 
pletely filled the eyes of all three. While they raised their 
hands to wipe them, the dead man vanished completely, so 
that they positively did not know whether they had actually 


THE CLOAK 


57 


had him in their grip at all. Thereafter the watchmen 
conceived such a terror of dead men that they were afraid 
even to seize the living, and only screamed from a distance. 
“Hey, there! go your way!” So the dead official began to 
appear even beyond the Kalinkin Bridge, causing no little 
terror to all timid people. 

But we have totally neglected that certain prominent 
personage who may really be considered as the cause of the 
fantastic turn taken by this true history. First of all, jus¬ 
tice compels us to say, that after the departure of poor, 
annihilated Akaky Akakiyevich, he felt something like re¬ 
morse. Suffering was unpleasant to him, for his heart was 
accessible to many good impulses, in spite of the fact that 
his rank often prevented his showing his true self. As soon 
as his friend had left his cabinet, he began to think about 
poor Akaky Akakiyevich. And from that day forth, poor 
Akaky Akakiyevich, who could not bear up under an 
official reprimand, recurred to his mind almost every day. 
The thought troubled him to such an extent, that a week 
later he even resolved to send an official to him, to learn 
whether he really could assist him. And when it was re¬ 
ported to him that Akaky Akakiyevich had died suddenly 
of fever, he was startled, hearkened to the reproaches of his 
conscience, and was out of sorts for the whole day. 

Wishing to divert his mind in some way and drive away 
the disagreeable impression, he set out that evening for 
one of his friends’ houses, where he found quite a large 
party assembled. What was better, nearly every one was 
of the same rank as himself, so that he need not feel in 
the least constrained. This had a marvellous effect upon 
his mental state. He grew expansive, made himself agree¬ 
able in conversation, in short, he passed a delightful eve¬ 
ning. After supper he drank a couple of glasses of cham¬ 
pagne—not a bad recipe for cheerfulness, as every one 
knows. The champagne inclined him to various adven¬ 
tures, and he determined not to return home, but to go 
and see a certain well-known lady, of German extraction, 
Karolina Ivanovna, a lady, it appears, with whom he was 
on a very friendly footing. 

It must be mentioned that the prominent personage was 


58 


BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 


no longer a young man, but a good husband and respected 
father of a family. Two sons, one of whom was already 
in the service, and a good-looking, sixteen-year-old daughter, 
with a slightly arched but pretty little nose, came every 
morning to kiss his hand and say, “Bon )our, papa.” His 
wife, a still fresh and good-looking woman, first gave him 
her hand to kiss, and then, reversing the procedure, kissed 
his. But the prominent personage, though perfectly sat¬ 
isfied in his domestic relations, considered it stylish to 
have a friend in another quarter of the city. This friend 
was scarcely prettier or younger than his wife; but there 
are such puzzles in the world, and it is not our place to 
judge them. So the important personage descended the 
stairs, stepped into his sledge, said to the coachman, “To 
Karolina Ivanovna’s,” and, wrapping himself luxuriously in 
his warm cloak, found himself in that delightful frame of 
mind than which a Russian can conceive nothing better, 
namely, when you think of nothing yourself, yet when the 
thoughts creep into your mind of their own accord, each 
more agreeable than the other, giving you no trouble either 
to drive them away, or seek them. Fully satisfied, he re¬ 
called all the gay features of the evening just’ passed and all 
the mots which had made the little circle laugh. Many of 
them he repeated in a low voice, and found them quite as 
funny as before; so it is not surprising that he should laugh 
heartily at them. Occasionally, however, he was interrupted 
by gusts of wind, which, coming suddenly, God knows 
whence or why, cut his face, drove masses of snow into it, 
filled out his cloak-collar like a sail, or suddenly blew it 
over his head with supernatural force, and thus caused 
him constant trouble to disentangle himself. 

Suddenly the important personage felt some one clutch 
him firmly by the collar. Turning round, he perceived a 
man of short stature, in an old, worn uniform, and recog¬ 
nised, not without terror, Akaky Akakiyevich. The of¬ 
ficial’s face was white as snow, and looked just like a 
corpse’s. But the horror of the important personage trans¬ 
cended all bounds when he saw the dead man’s mouth 
open, and heard it utter the following remarks, while it 
breathed upon him the terrible odour of the grave: “Ah, 


THE CLOAK 


59 


here you are at last! I have you, that—by the collar! 
I need your cloak. You took no trouble about mine, but 
reprimanded me. So now give up your own.” 

The pallid prominent personage almost died of fright. 
Brave as he was in the office and in the presence of 
inferiors generally, and although, at the sight of his manly 
form and appearance, every one said, “Ugh! how much 
character he has!” at this crisis, he, like many possessed 
of an heroic exterior, experienced such terror, that, not 
without cause, he began to fear an attack of illness. He 
flung his cloak hastily from his shoulders and shouted to 
his coachman in an unnatural voice, “Home at full speed!” 
The coachman, hearing the tone which is generally em¬ 
ployed at critical moments, and even accompanied by some¬ 
thing much more tangible, drew his head down between 
his shoulders in case of an emergency, flourished his whip, 
and flew on like an arrow. In a little more than six 
minutes the prominent personage was at the entrance of 
his own house. Pale, thoroughly scared, and cloakless, he 
went home instead of to Karolina Ivanovna’s, reached his 
room somehow or other, and passed the night in the direst 
distress; so that the next morning over their tea, his 
daughter said, “You are very pale to-day, papa.” But papa 
remained silent, and said not a word to any one of what 
had happened to him, where he had been, or where he had 
intended to go. 

This occurrence made a deep impression upon him. He 
even began to say, “How dare you? Do you realise who 
is standing before you?” less frequently to the under-of¬ 
ficials, and, if he did utter the words, it was only after 
first having learned the bearings of the matter. But the 
most noteworthy point was, that from that day forward 
the apparition of the dead official ceased to be seen. Evi¬ 
dently the prominent personage’s cloak just fitted his 
shoulders. At all events, no more instances of his dragging 
cloaks from people’s shoulders were heard of. But many 
active and solicitous persons could by no means reassure 
themselves, and asserted that the dead official still showed 
himself in distant parts of the city. 

In fact, one watchman in Kolomen saw with his own 


6o 


BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 


eyes the apparition come from behind a house. But the 
watchman was not a strong man, so he was afraid to arrest 
him, and followed him in the dark, until, at length, the 
apparition looked round, paused, and inquired, “What do 
you want?” at the same time showing such a fist as is 
never seen on living men. The watchman said, “Nothing,” 
and turned back instantly. But the apparition was much 
too tall, wore huge moustaches, and, directing its steps 
apparently towards the Obukhov Bridge, disappeared in 
the darkness of the night. ' 


THE DISTRICT DOCTOR 

By Ivan S. Turgenev 

O NE day in autumn on my way back from a remote part 
of the country I caught cold and fell ill. Fortunately 
the fever attacked me in the district town at the inn; I 
sent for the doctor. In half-an-hour the district doctor 
appeared, a thin, dark-haired man of middle height. He 
prescribed me the usual sudorific, ordered a mustard-plaster 
to be put on, very deftly slid a five-ruble note up his 
sleeve, coughing drily and looking away as he did so, and 
then was getting up to go home, but somehow fell into 
talk and remained. I was exhausted with feverishness; I 
foresaw a sleepless night, and was glad of a little chat with 
a pleasant companion. Tea was served. My doctor began 
to converse freely. He was a sensible fellow, and expressed 
himself with vigour and some humour. Queer things hap¬ 
pen in the world: you may live a long while with some 
people, and be on friendly terms with them, and never once 
speak openly with them from your soul; with others you 
have scarcely time to get acquainted, and all at once you 
are pouring out to him—or he to you—all your secrets, 
as though you were at confession. I don’t know how I 
gained the confidence of my new friend—anyway, with 
nothing to lead up to it, he told me a rather curious in¬ 
cident; and here I will report his tale for the information 
of the indulgent reader. I will try to tell it in the doctor’s 
own words. 

“You don’t happen to know,” he began in a weak and 
quavering voice (the common result of the use of unmixed 
Berezov snuff); “you don’t happen to know the judge here, 
Mylov, Pavel Lukich? . . . You don’t know him? 

. Well, it’s all the same.” (He cleared his throat 
and rubbed his eyes.) “Well, you see, the thing happened, 
to tell you exactly without mistake, in Lent, at the very 

61 


62 


BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 


time of the thaws. I was sitting at his house—our judge’s, 
you know—playing preference. Our judge is a good fel¬ 
low, and fond of playing preference. Suddenly” (the 
doctor made frequent use of this word, suddenly) “they 
tell me, ‘There’s a servant asking for you.’ I say, ‘What 
does he want?’ They say, ‘He has brought a note—it 
must be from a patient.’ ‘Give me the note,’ I say. So 
it is from a patient—well and good—you understand—it’s 
our bread and butter. . . . But this is how it was: a 
lady, a widow, writes to me; she says, ‘My daughter is 
dying. Come, for God’s sake!’ she says, ‘and the horses 
have been sent for you.’ . . . Well, that’s all right. 
But she was twenty miles from the town, and it was mid¬ 
night out of doors, and the roads in such a state, my word! 
And as she was poor herself, one could not expect more 
than two silver rubles, and even that problematic; and 
perhaps it might only be a matter of a roll of linen and a 
sack of oatmeal in payment. However, duty, you know, 
before everything: a fellow-creature may be dying. I hand 
over my cards at once to Kalliopin, the member of the 
provincial commission, and return home. I look; a wretched 
little trap was standing at the steps, with peasant’s horses, 
fat—too fat—and their coat as shaggy as felt; and the 
coachman sitting with his cap off out of respect. Well, I 
think to myself, ‘It’s clear, my friend, these patients 
aren’t rolling in riches.’ . . . You smile; but I tell 

you, a poor man like me has to take everything into con¬ 
sideration. ... If the coachman sits like a prince, 
and doesn’t touch his cap, and even sneers at you behind 
his beard, and flicks his whip—then you may bet on six 
rubles. But this case, I saw, had a very different air. 
However, I think there’s no help for it; duty before every¬ 
thing. I snatch up the most necessary drugs, and set off. 
Will you believe it? I only just managed to get there at 
all. The road was infernal: streams, snow, watercourses, 
and the dyke had suddenly burst there—that was the worst 
of it! However, I arrived at last. It was a little thatched 
house. There was a light in the windows; that meant they 
expected me. I was met by an old lady, very venerable, 
in a cap. ‘Save her!’ she says; ‘she is dying.’ I say, 


THE DISTRICT DOCTOR 


63 


‘Pray don’t distress yourself—Where is the invalid?’ 
‘Come this way.’ I see a clean little room, a lamp in 
the corner; on the bed a girl of twenty, unconscious. She 
was in a burning heat, and breathing heavily—it was fever. 
There were two other girls, her sisters, scared and in tears. 
‘Yesterday,’ they tell me, ‘she was perfectly well and had 
a good appetite; this morning she complained of her head, 
and this evening, suddenly, you see, like this.’ I say 
again: ‘Pray don’t be uneasy.’ It’s a doctor’s duty, you 
know—and I went up to her and bled her, told them to 
put on a mustard-plaster, and prescribed a mixture. Mean¬ 
time I looked at her; I looked at her, you know—there, 
by God! I had never seen such a face!—she was a beauty, 
in a word! I felt quite shaken with pity. Such lovely 
features; such eyes! . . . But, thank God! she be¬ 

came easier; she fell into a perspiration, seemed to come 
to her senses, looked round, smiled, and passed her hand 
over her face. . . . Her sisters bent over her. They 
ask, ‘How are you?’ ‘All right,’ she says, and turns 
away. I looked at her; she had fallen asleep. ‘Well,’ I 
say, ‘now the patient should be left alone.’ So we all 
went out on tiptoe; only a maid remained, in case she 
was wanted. In the parlour there was a samovar standing 
on the table, and a bottle of rum; in our profession one 
can’t get on without it. They gave me tea; asked me to 
stop the night. ... I consented: where could I go, 
indeed, at that time of night? The old lady kept groaning. 
‘What is it?’ I say; ‘she will live; don’t worry yourself; 
you had better take a little rest yourself; it is about two 
o’clock.’ ‘But will you send to wake me if anything hap¬ 
pens?’ ‘Yes, yes.’ The old lady went away, and the 
girls too went to their own room; they made up a bed for 
me in the parlour. Well, I went to bed—but I could not 
get to sleep, for a wonder! for in reality I was very tired. 
I could not get my patient out of my head. At last I could 
not put up with it any longer; I got up suddenly; I think 
to myself, ‘I will go and see how the patient is getting on.’ 
Her bedroom was next to the parlour. Well, I got up, and 
gently opened»the door—how my heart beat! I looked in: 
the servant was asleep, her mouth wide open, and even snor- 


64 BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 

ing, the wretch! but the patient lay with her face towards 
me, and her arms flung wide apart, poor girl! I went up 
to her . . . when suddenly she opened her eyes and 

stared at me! ‘Who is it? who is it? 5 I was in confusion. 
‘Don’t be alarmed, madam, 5 I say; ‘I am the doctor; I 
have come to see how you feel. 5 ‘You the doctor? 5 ‘Yes, 
the doctor; your mother sent for me from the town; we 
have bled you, madam; now pray go to sleep, and in a day 
or two, please God! we will set you on your feet again.’ 
‘Ah, yes, yes, doctor, don’t let me die. . . . please, 
please. 5 ‘Why do you talk like that? God bless you! 5 
She is in a fever again, I think to myself; I felt her pulse; 
yes, she was feverish. She looked at me, and then took 
me by the hand. ‘I will tell you why I don’t want to die; 
I will tell you. . / . Now we are alone; and only, please 
don’t you . . . not to any one . . . Listen. . . .’ I bent 
down; she moved her lips quite to my ear; she touched my 
cheek with her hair—I confess my head went round—and 
began to whisper. ... I could make out nothing of it. . . . 
Ah, she was delirious! . . . She whispered and whispered, 
but so quickly, and as if it were not in Russian; at last she 
finished, and shivering dropped her head on the pillow, and 
threatened me with her finger: ‘Remember, doctor, to no 
one. 5 I calmed her somehow, gave her something to drink, 
waked the servant, and went away. 55 

At this point the doctor again took snuff with exasperated 
energy, and for a moment seemed stupefied by its effects. 

“However,” he continued, “the next day, contrary to my 
expectations, the patient was no better. I thought and 
thought, and suddenly decided to remain there, even though 
my other patients were expecting me. . . . And you know 
one can’t afford to disregard that; one’s practice suffers if 
one does. But, in the first place, the patient was really in 
danger; and secondly, to tell the truth, I felt strongly drawn 
to her. Besides, I liked the whole family. Though they 
were really badly off, they were singularly, I may say, culti¬ 
vated people. . . . Their father had been a learned man, an 
author; he died, of course, in poverty, but he had man¬ 
aged before he died to give his children an excellent edu¬ 
cation; he left a lot of books too. Either because I looked 


THE DISTRICT DOCTOR 


65 

after the invalid very carefully, or for some other reason; 
anyway, I can venture to say all the household loved me 
as if I were one of the family. . . . Meantime the roads 
were in a worse state than ever; all communications, so to 
say, were cut off completely; even medicine could with diffi¬ 
culty be got from the town. . . . The sick girl was not get¬ 
ting better. . . . Day after day, and day after day . . . 
but . . . here. . . (The doctor made a brief pause.) 
“I declare I don’t know how to tell you.” ... (He again 
took snuff, coughed, and swallowed a little tea.) “I will tell 
you without beating about the bush. My patient . . . how 
should I say? . . . Well she had fallen in love with me . . . 
or, no, it was not that she was in love . . . however . . . 
really, how should one say?” (The doctor looked down 
and grew red.) “No,” he went on quickly, “in love, indeed! 
A man should not over-estimate himself. She was an edu¬ 
cated girl, clever and well-read, and I had even forgotten 
my Latin, one may say, completely. As to appearance” 
(the doctor looked himself over with a smile) “I am nothing 
to boast of there either. But God Almighty did not make 
me a fool; I don’t take black for white; I know a thing 
or two; I could see very clearly, for instance that Aleksandra 
Andreyevna—that was her name—did not feel love for me, 
but had a friendly, so to say, inclination—a respect or some¬ 
thing for me. Though she herself perhaps mistook this 
sentiment, anyway this was her attitude; you may form 
your own judgment of it. But,” added the doctor, who had 
brought out all these disconnected sentences without taking 
breath, and with obvious embarrassment, “I seem to be 
wandering rather—you won’t understand anything like 
this . . . There, with your leave, I will relate it all in 
order.” 

He drank off a glass of tea, and began in a calmer voice. 

“Well, then. My patient kept getting worse and worse. 
You are not a doctor, my good sir; you cannot understand 
what passes in a poor fellow’s heart, especially at first, when 
he begins to suspect that the disease is getting the upper 
hand of him. What becomes of his belief in himself? 
You suddenly grow so timid; it’s indescribable. You fancy 
then that you have forgotten everything you knew, and that 


66 


BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 


the patient has no faith in you, and that other people begin 
to notice how distracted you are, and tell you the symp¬ 
toms with reluctance; that they are looking at you sus¬ 
piciously, whispering ... Ah! it’s horrid! There must 
be a remedy, you think, for this disease, if one could find 
it. Isn’t this it? You try—no, that’s not it! You 
don’t allow the medicine the necessary time to do good . . . 
You clutch at one thing, then at another. Sometimes you 
take up a book of medical prescriptions—here it is, you 
think! Sometimes, by Jove, you pick one out by chance, 
thinking to leave it to fate. . . . But meantime a fellow- 
creature’s dying, and another doctor would have saved him. 
‘We must have a consultation,’ you say; T will not take 
the responsibility on myself.’ And what a fool you look at 
such times! Well, in time you learn to bear it; it’s noth¬ 
ing to you. A man has died—but it’s not your fault; you 
treated him by the rules. But what’s still more torture 
to you is to see blind faith in you, and to feel yourself that 
you are not able to be of use. Well, it was just this blind 
faith that the whole of Aleksandra Andreyevna’s family had 
in me; they had forgotten to think that their daughter was 
in danger. I, too, on my side assure them that it’s noth¬ 
ing, but meantime my heart sinks into my boots. To add to 
our troubles, the roads were in such a state that the coach¬ 
man was gone for whole days together to get medicine. And 
I never left the patient’s room; I could not tear myself 
away; I tell her amusing stories, you know, and play cards 
with her. I watch by her side at night. The old mother 
thanks me with tears in her eyes; but I think to myself, 
‘I don’t deserve your gratitude.’ I frankly confess to you— 
there is no object in concealing it now—I was in love with 
my patient. And Aleksandra Andreyevna had grown fond of 
me; she would not sometimes let any one be in her room 
but me. She began to talk to me, to ask me questions; 
where I had studied, how I lived, who are my people, whom 
I go to see. I feel that she ought not to talk; but to forbid 
her to—to forbid her resolutely, you know—I could not. 
Sometimes I held my head in my hands, and asked myself, 
“What are you doing, villain?” ... And she would take my 
hand and hold it, give me a long, long look, and turn away, 


THE DISTRICT DOCTOR 


67 


sigh, and say, ‘How good you are!’ Her hands were so fe¬ 
verish, her eyes so large and languid. . . . ‘Yes,’ she says, 
‘you are a good, kind man; you are not like our neigh¬ 
bours. . . . No, you are not like that. . . . Why did I not 
know you till now! ’ ‘Aleksandra Andreyevna, calm yourself,’ 
I say. ... ‘I feel, believe me, I don’t know how I have 
gained . . . but there, calm yourself. . . . All will be right; 
you will be well again.’ And meanwhile I must tell you,” 
continued the doctor, bending forward and raising his eye¬ 
brows, “that they associated very little with the neighbours, 
because the smaller people were not on their level, and 
pride hindered them from being friendly with the rich. I 
tell you, they were an exceptionally cultivated family; so you 
know it was gratifying for me. She would only take her 
medicine from my hands . . . she would lift herself up, 
poor girl, with my aid, take it, and gaze at me. . . . My 
heart felt as if it were bursting. And meanwhile she was 
growing worse and worse, worse and worse, all the time; 
she will die, I think to myself; she must die. Believe me, 
I would sooner have gone to the grave myself; and here were 
her mother and sisters watching me, looking into my eyes 
. . . and their faith in me was wearing away. ‘Well? how 
is she?’ ‘Oh, all right, all right!’ All right, indeed! My 
mind was failing me. Well, I was sitting one night alone 
again by my patient. The maid was sitting there too, 
and snoring away in full swing; I can’t find fault with the 
poor girl, though; she was worn out too. Aleksandra An¬ 
dreyevna had felt very unwell all the evening; she was very 
feverish. Until midnight she kept tossing about; at last 
she seemed to fall asleep; at least, she lay still without 
stirring. The lamp was burning in the corner before the 
holy image. I sat there, you know, with my head bent; I 
even dozed a little. Suddenly it seemed as though some one 
touched me in the side; I turned round. . . . Good God! 
Aleksandra Andreyevna was gazing with intent eyes at me 
... her lips parted, her cheeks seemed burning. ‘What is it?’ 
‘Doctor, shall I die?’ ‘Merciful Heavens!’ ‘No, doctor, no; 
please don’t tell me I shall live . . . don’t say so. . . . If 
you knew. . . . Listen! for God’s sake don’t conceal my 
real position,’ and her breath came so fast. ‘If I can know 


68 


BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 


for certain that I must die . . . then I will tell you all— 
all!’ ‘Aleksandra Andreyevna, I beg!’ ‘Listen; I have not 
been asleep at all ... I have been looking at you a long 
while. . . . For God’s sake! ... I believe in you; you are 
a good man, an honest man; I entreat you by all that is 
sacred in the world—tell me the truth! If you knew how 
important it is for me. . . . Doctor, for God’s sake tell 
me. . . . Am I in danger?’ ‘What can I tell you, Aleksan- 
dra Andreyevna, pray?’ ‘For God’s sake, I beseech you!’ ‘I 
can’t disguise from you,’ I say, ‘Aleksandra Andreyevna; you 
are certainly in danger; but God is merciful.’ ‘I shall die, 
I shall die.’ And it seemed as though she were pleased; her 
face grew so bright; I was alarmed. ‘Don’t be afraid, 
don’t be afraid! I am not frightened of death at all.’ She 
suddenly sat up and leaned on her elbow. ‘Now . . . yes, 
now I can tell you that I thank you with my whole 
heart . . . that you are kind and good—that I love you! ’ I 
stare at her, like one possessed; it was terrible for me, you 
know. ‘Do you hear, I love you! ’ ‘Aleksandra Andreyevna, 

how have I deserved-’ ‘No, no, you don’t—you don’t 

understand me.’ . . . And suddenly she stretched out her 
arms, and taking my head in her hands, she kissed it. . . . 
Believe me, I almost screamed aloud. ... I threw myself 
on my knees, and buried my head in the pillow. She did 
not speak; her fingers trembled in my hair; I listen; she 
is weeping. I began to soothe her, to assure her. ... I 
really don’t know what I did say to her. ‘You will wake up 
the girl,’ I say to her; ‘Aleksandra Andreyevna, I thank 
you . . . believe me . . . calm yourself.’ ‘Enough, 
enough!’ she persisted; ‘never mind all of them; let them 
wake, then; let them come in—it does not matter; I am 
dying, you see. . . . And what do you fear? why are you 
afraid? Lift up your head. ... Or, perhaps, you don’t 
love me; perhaps I am wrong. ... In that case, forgive 
me.’ ‘Aleksandra Andreyevna, what are you saying! ... I 
love you, Aleksandra Andreyevna.’ She looked straight into 
my eyes, and opened her arms wide. ‘Then take me in 
your arms.’ I tell you frankly, I don’t know how it was 
I did not go mad that night. I feel that my patient is kill¬ 
ing herself; I see that she is not fully herself; I under- 



THE DISTRICT DOCTOR 


69 

stand, too, that if she did not consider herself on the point 
of death, she would never have thought of me; and, in¬ 
deed, say what you will, it’s hard to die at twenty without 
having known love; this was what was torturing her; this 
was why, in despair, she caught at me—do you understand 
now?. But she held me in her arms, and would not let me go. 
‘Have pity on me, Aleksandra Andreyevna, and have pity 
on yourself,’ I say. ‘Why,’ she says; Svhat is there to think 
of? You know I must die.’ . . . This she repeated inces¬ 
santly. ... ‘If I knew that I should return to life, and be 
a proper young lady again, I should be ashamed ... of 
course, ashamed . . . but why now?’ ‘But who has said 
you will die?’ ‘Oh, no, leave off! you will not deceive 
me; you don’t know how to lie—look at your face.’ . . . 
‘You shall live, Aleksandra Andreyevna; I will cure you; we 
will ask your mother’s blessing ... we will be united— 
we will be happy.’ ‘No, no, I have your word; I must 
die . . . you have promised me . . . you have told me.’ 
... It was cruel for me—cruel for many reasons. And see 
what trifling things can do sometimes; it seems nothing at 
all, but it’s painful. It occurred to her to ask me, what is 
my name; not my surname, but my first name. I must 
needs be so unlucky as to be called Trifon. Yes, indeed; 
Trifon Ivanich. Every one in the house called me doctor. 
However, there’s no help for it. I say, ‘Trifon, madam.’ 
She frowned, shook her head, and muttered something in 
French—ah, something unpleasant, of course!—and then she 
laughed—disagreeably too. Well, I spent the whole night 
with her in this way. Before morning I went away, feeling 
as though I were mad. When I went again into her room 
it was daytime, after morning tea. Good God! I could 
scarcely recognise her; people are laid in their grave looking 
better than that. I swear to you, on my honour, I don’t 
understand—I absolutely don’t understand—now, how I 
lived through that experience. Three days and nights my 
patient still lingered on. And what nights! What things 
she said to me! And on the last night—only imagine to 
yourself—I was sitting near her, and kept praying to God 
for one thing only: ‘Take her,’ I said, ‘quickly, and me 
with her.’ Suddenly the old mother comes unexpectedly 


70 BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 

into the room. I had already the evening before told her—- 
the mother—there was little hope, and it would be well to 
send for a priest. When the sick girl saw her mother she 
said: ‘It’s very well you have come; look at us, we love 
one another—we have given each other our word/ ‘What 
does she say, doctor? what does she say?’ I turned livid. 
‘She is wandering,’ I say; ‘the fever.’ But she: ‘Hush, hush; 
you told me something quite different just now, and have 
taken my ring. Why do you pretend? My mother is good 
—she will forgive—she will understand—and I am dying. 
. . . I have no need to tell lies; give me your hand.’ I 
jumped up and ran out of the room. The old lady, of course, 
guessed how it was. 

“I will not, however, weary you any longer, and to me 
too, of course, it’s painful to recall all this. My patient 
passed away the next day. God rest her soul!” the doctor 
added, speaking quickly and with a sigh. “Before her death 
she asked her family to go out and leave me alone with 
her.” 

“ ‘Forgive me,’ she said; ‘I am perhaps to blame towards 
you . . . my illness . . . but believe me, I have loved no 
one more than you ... do not forget me . . . keep my 
ring.’ ” 

The doctor turned away; I took his hand. 

“Ah!” he said, “let us talk of something else, or would 
you care to play preference for a small stake? It is not for 
people like me to give way to exalted emotions. There’s 
only one thing for me to think of; how to keep the children 
from crying and the wife from scolding. Since then, you 
know, I have had time to enter into lawful wedlock, as 
they say. ... Oh ... I took a merchant’s daughter— 
seven thousand for her dowry. Her name’s Akulina; it goes 
well with Trifon. She is an ill-tempered woman, I must 
tell you, but luckily she’s asleep all day. . . . Well, shall 
it be preference?” 

We sat down to preference for halfpenny points. Trifon 
Ivanich won two rubles and a half from me, and went 
home late, well pleased with his success. 


THE CHRISTMAS TREE AND THE 
WEDDING 


By Fiodor M. Dostoyevsky 



HE other day I saw a wedding. . . . But no! I would 


JL rather tell you about a Christmas tree. The wedding 
was superb. I liked it immensely. But the other incident 
was still finer. I don’t know why it is that the sight of the 
wedding reminded me of the Christmas tree. This is the 
way it happened: 

Exactly five years ago, on New Year’s Eve, I was invited 
to a children’s ball by a man high up in the business world, 
who had his connections, his circle of acquaintances, and his 
intrigues. So it seemed as though the children’s ball was 
merely a pretext for the parents to come together and discuss 
matters of interest to themselves, quite innocently and 
casually. 

I was an outsider, and, as I had no special matters to air, 
I was able to spend the evening independently of the others. 
There was another gentleman present who like myself had 
just stumbled upon this affair of domestic bliss. He was the 
first to attract my attention. His appearance was not that 
of a man of birth or high family. He was tall, rather thin, 
very serious, and well dressed. Apparently he had no heart 
for the family festivities. The instant he went off into a 
corner by himself the smile disappeared from his face, and 
his thick dark brows knitted into a frown. He knew no one 
except the host and showed every sign of being bored to 
death, though bravely sustaining the role of thorough en¬ 
joyment to the end. Later I learned that he was a provin¬ 
cial, had come to the capital on some important, brain- 
racking business, had brought a letter of recommendation 
to our host, and our host had taken him under his protec¬ 
tion, not at all con amove. It was merely out of politeness 
that he had invited him to the children’s ball. 


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They did not play cards with him, they did not offer him 
cigars. No one entered into conversation with him. Pos¬ 
sibly they recognised the bird by its feathers from a dis¬ 
tance. Thus, my gentleman, not knowing what to do with 
his hands, was compelled to spend the evening stroking 
his whiskers. His whiskers were really fine, but he stroked 
them so assiduously that one got the feeling that the whis¬ 
kers had come into the world first and afterwards the man 
in order to stroke them. 

There was another guest who interested me. But he was 
of quite a different order. He was a personage. They 
called him Julian Mastakovich. At first glance one could 
tell he was an honoured guest and stood in the same relation 
to the host as the host to the gentleman of the whiskers. 
The host and hostess said no end of amiable things to him, 
were most attentive, wining him, hovering over him, bring¬ 
ing guests up to be introduced, but never leading him to 
any one else. I noticed tears glisten in our host’s eyes when 
Julian Mastakovich remarked that he had rarely spent such 
a pleasant evening. Somehow I began to feel uncomfort¬ 
able in this personage’s presence. So, after amusing myself 
with the children, five of whom, remarkably well-fed young 
persons, were our host’s, I went into a little sitting-room, 
entirely unoccupied, and seated myself at the end that was 
a conservatory and took up almost half the room. 

The children were charming. They absolutely refused to 
resemble their elders, notwithstanding the efforts of mothers 
and governesses. In a jiffy they had denuded the Christ¬ 
mas tree down to the very last sweet and had already suc¬ 
ceeded in breaking half of their playthings before they 
even found out which belonged to whom. 

One of them was a particularly handsome little lad, dark¬ 
eyed, curly-haired, who stubbornly persisted in aiming at 
me with his wooden gun. But the child that attracted the 
greatest attention was his sister, a girl of about eleven, lovely 
as a Cupid. She was quiet and thoughtful, with large, full, 
dreamy eyes. The children had somehow offended her, and 
she left them and walked into the same room that I had 
withdrawn into. There she seated herself with her doll in 
a corner. 


THE CHRISTMAS TREE AND THE WEDDING 73 

“Her father is an immensely wealthy business man,” the 
guests informed each other in tones of awe. “Three hun¬ 
dred thousand rubles set aside for her dowry already.” 

As I turned to look at the group from which I heard 
this news item issuing, my glance met Julian Mastakovich’s. 
He stood listening to the insipid chatter in an attitude of 
concentrated attention, with his hands behind his back and 
his head inclined to one side. 

All the while I was quite lost in admiration of the shrewd¬ 
ness our host displayed in the dispensing of the gifts. The 
little maid of the many-rubled dowry received the hand¬ 
somest doll, and the rest of the gifts were graded in value 
according to the diminishing scale of the parents’ stations 
in life. The last child, a tiny chap of ten, thin, red-haired, 
freckled, came into possession of a small book of nature 
stories without illustrations or even head and tail pieces. 
He was the governess’s child. She was a poor widow, and 
her little boy, clad in a sorry-looking little nankeen jacket, 
looked thoroughly crushed and intimidated. He took the 
book of nature stories and circled slowly about the chil¬ 
dren’s toys. He would have given anything to play with 
them. But he did not dare to. You could tell he already 
knew his place. 

I like to observe children. It is fascinating to watch the 
individuality in them struggling for self-assertion. I could 
see that the other children’s things had tremendous charm 
for the red-haired boy, especially a toy theatre, in which 
he was so anxious to take a part that he resolved to fawn 
upon the other children. He smiled and began to play with 
them. His one and only apple he handed over to a puffy 
urchin whose pockets were already crammed with sweets, 
and he even carried another youngster pickaback—all 
simply that he might be allowed to stay with the theatre. 

But in a few moments an impudent young person fell 
on him and gave him a pummelling. He did not dare even 
to cry. The governess came and told him to leave off inter¬ 
fering with the other children’s games, and he crept away to 
the same room the little girl and I were in. She let him 
sit down beside her, and the two set themselves busily to 
dressing the expensive doll. 


74 


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Almost half an hour passed, and I was nearly dozing 
off, as I sat there in the conservatory half listening to the 
chatter of the red-haired boy and the dowered beauty, when 
Julian Mastakovich entered suddenly. He had slipped out 
of the drawing-room under cover of a noisy scene among the 
children. From my secluded corner it had not escaped my 
notice that a few moments before he had been eagerly con¬ 
versing with the rich girl’s father, to whom he had only 
just been introduced. 

He stood still for a while reflecting and mumbling to 
himself, as if counting something on his fingers. 

“Three hundred—three hundred—eleven—twelve—thir¬ 
teen—sixteen—in five years! Let’s say four per cent—five 

times twelve—sixty, and on these sixty-. Let us assume 

that in five years it will amount to—well, four hundred. 
Hm—hm! But the shrewd old fox isn’t likely to be satisfied 
with four per cent. He gets eight or even ten, perhaps. 
Let’s suppose five hundred, five hundred thousand, at 
least, that’s sure. Anything above that for pocket money— 
hm—” 

He blew his nose and was about to leave the room when 
he spied the girl and stood still. I, behind the plants, 
escaped his notice. He seemed to me to be quivering with 
excitement. It must have been his calculations that upset 
him so. He rubbed his hands and danced from place to 
place, and kept getting more and more excited. Finally, 
however, he conquered his emotions and came to a stand¬ 
still. He cast a determined look at the future bride and 
wanted to move toward her, but glanced about first. Then, 
as if with a guilty conscience, he stepped over to the child 
on tip-toe, smiling, and bent down and kissed her head. 

His coming was so unexpected that she uttered a shriek 
of alarm. 

“What are you doing here, dear child?” he whispered, 
looking around and pinching her cheek. 

“We’re playing.” 

“What, with him?” said Julian Mastakovich with a look 
askance at the governess’s child. “You should go into 
the drawing-room, my lad,” he said to him. 

The boy remained silent and looked up at the man with 



THE CHRISTMAS TREE AND THE WEDDING 75 

wide-open eyes. Julian Mastakovich glanced round again 
cautiously and bent down over the girl. 

“What have you got, a doll, my dear?” 

“Yes, sir.” The child quailed a little, and her brow 
wrinkled. 

“A doll? And do you know, my dear, what dolls are made 
of?” 

“No, sir,” she said weakly, and lowered her head. 

“Out of rags, my dear. You, boy, you go back to the 
drawing-room, to the children,” said Julian Mastakovich, 
looking at the boy sternly. 

The two children frowned. They caught hold of each 
other and would not part. 

“And do you know why they gave you the doll?” asked 
Julian Mastakovich, dropping his voice lower and lower. 

“No.” 

“Because you were a good, very good little girl the whole 
week.” 

Saying which, Julian Mastakovich was seized with a 
paroxysm of agitation. He looked round and said in a tone 
faint, almost inaudible with excitement and impatience: 

“If I come to visit your parents will you love me, my 
dear?” 

He tried to kiss the sweet little creature, but the red- 
haired boy saw that she was on the verge of tears, and he 
caught her hand and sobbed out loud in sympathy. That 
enraged the man. 

“Go away! Go away! Go back to the other room, to 
your playmates.” 

“I don’t want him to. I don’t want him to! You go 
away!” cried the girl. “Let him alone! Let him alone!” 
She was almost weeping. 

There was a sound of footsteps in the doorway. Julian 
Mastakovich started and straightened up his respectable 
body. The red-haired boy was even more alarmed. He let 
go the girl's hand, sidled along the wall, and escaped through 
the drawing-room into the dining-room. 

Not to attract atention, Julian Mastakovich also made 
for the dining-room. He was red as a lobster. The sight 
of himself in a mirror seemed to embarrass him. Presum- 


BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 


76 

ably he was annoyed at his own ardour and impatience. 
Without due respect to his importance and dignity, his calcu¬ 
lations had lured and pricked him to the greedy eagerness 
of a boy, who makes straight for his object—though this 
was not as yet an object; it only would be so in five years’ 
time. I followed the worthy man into the dining-room, 
where I witnessed a remarkable play. 

Julian Mastakovich, all flushed with vexation, venom in 
his look, began to threaten the red-haired boy. The red- 
haired boy retreated farther and farther until there was no 
place left for him to retreat to, and he did not know where 
to turn in his fright. 

“Get out of here! What are you doing here? Get out, 
I say, you good-for-nothing! Stealing fruit, are you? Oh, 
so, stealing fruit! Get out, you freckle face, go to your 
likes!” 

The frightened child, as a last desperate resort, crawled 
quickly under the table. His persecutor, completely in¬ 
furiated, pulled out his large linen handkerchief and used 
it as a lash to drive the boy out of his position. 

Here I must remark that Julian Mastakovich was a some¬ 
what corpulent man, heavy, well-fed, puffy-cheeked, with a 
paunch and ankles as round as nuts. He perspired and 
puffed and panted. So strong was his dislike (or was it 
jealousy?) of the child that he actually began to carry 
on like a madman. 

I laughed heartily. Julian Mastakovich turned. He was 
utterly confused and for a moment, apparently, quite obliv¬ 
ious of his immense importance. At that moment our host 
appeared in the doorway opposite. The boy crawled out 
from under the table and wiped his knees and elbows. 
Julian Mastakovich hastened to carry his handkerchief, 
which he had been dangling by the corner, to his nose. 
Our host looked at the three of us rather suspiciously. 
But, like a man who knows the world and can readily adjust 
himself, he seized upon the opportunity to lay hold of his 
very valuable guest and get what he wanted out of him. 

“Here’s the boy I was talking to you about,” he said, 
indicating the red-haired child. “I took the liberty of pre¬ 
suming on your goodness in his behalf.” 


THE CHRISTMAS TREE AND THE WEDDING 77 

“Oh,” replied Julian Mastakovich, still not quite master 
of himself. 

“He’s my governess’s son,” our host continued in a be¬ 
seeching tone. “She’s a poor creature, the widow of an 
honest official. That’s why, if it were possible for you—” 

“Impossible, impossible!” Julian Mastakovich cried has¬ 
tily. “You must excuse me, Philip Alexeyevich, I really 
cannot. I’ve made inquiries. There are no vacancies, and 
there is a waiting list of ten who have a greater right—I’m 
sorry.” 

“Too bad,” said our host. “He’s a quiet, unobtrusive 
child.” 

“A very naughty little rascal, I should say,” said Julian 
Mastakovich, wryly. “Go away, boy. Why are you here 
still? Be off with you to the other children.” 

Unable to control himself, he gave me a sidelong glance. 
Nor could I control myself. I laughed straight in his face. 
He turned away and asked our host, in tones quite audible 
to me, who that odd young fellow was. They whispered to 
each other and left the room, disregarding me. 

I shook with laughter. Then I, too, went to the drawing¬ 
room. There the great man, already surrounded by the 
fathers and mothers and the host and the hostess, had begun 
to talk eagerly with a lady to whom he had just been intro¬ 
duced. The lady held the rich little girl’s hand. Julian 
Mastakovich went into fulsome praise of her. He waxed 
ecstatic over the dear child’s beauty, her talents, her grace, 
her excellent breeding, plainly laying himself out to flatter 
the mother, who listened scarcely able to restrain tears of 
joy, while the father showed his delight by a gratified smile. 

The joy was contagious. Everybody shared in it. Even 
the children were obliged to stop playing so as not to disturb 
the conversation. The atmosphere was surcharged with awe. 

I heard the mother of the important little girl, touched to 
her profoundest depths, ask Julian Mastakovich in the 
choicest language of courtesy, whether he would honour 
them by coming to see them. I heard Julian Mastakovich 
accept the invitation with unfeigned enthusiasm. Then 
the guests scattered decorously to different parts of the room, 
and I heard them, with veneration in their tones, extol. 


78 


BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 


the business man, the business man’s wife, the business 
man’s daughter, and, especially, Julian Mastakovich. 

“Is he married?” I asked out loud of an acquaintance of 
mine standing beside Julian Mastakovich. 

Julian Mastakovich gave me a venomous look. 

“No,” answered my acquaintance, profoundly shocked 
by my—intentional—indiscretion. 

Not long ago I passed the Church of-. I was struck by 

the concourse of people gathered there to witness a wedding. 
It was a dreary day. A drizzling rain was beginning to come 
down. I made my way through the throng into the church. 
The bridegroom was a round, well-fed, pot-bellied little man, 
very much dressed up. He ran and fussed about and gave 
orders and arranged things. Finally word was passed that 
the bride was coming. I pushed through the crowd, and I 
beheld a marvellous beauty whose first spring was scarcely 
commencing. But the beauty was pale and sad. She looked 
distracted. It seemed to me even that her eyes were red 
from recent weeping. The classic severity of every line of 
her face imparted a peculiar significance and solemnity to 
her beauty. But through that severity and solemnity, 
through the sadness, shone the innocence of a child. There 
was something inexpressibly naive, unsettled and young in 
her features, which, without words, seemed to plead for 
mercy. 

They said she was just sixteen years old. I looked at 
the bridegroom carefully. Suddenly I recognised Julian 
Mastakovich, whom I had not seen again in all those five 
years. Then I looked at the bride again.—Good God! I 
made my way, as quickly as I could, out of the church. I 
heard gossiping in the crowd about the bride’s wealth— 
about her dowry of five hundred thousand rubles—so and 
so much for pocket money. 

“Then his calculations were correct,” I thought, as I 
pressed out into the street. 



GOD SEES THE TRUTH, BUT WAITS 

By Leo N. Tolstoy 

I N the town of Vladimir lived a young merchant named 
Ivan Dmitrich Aksionov. He had two shops and a house 
of his own. 

Aksionov was a handsome, fair-haired, curly-headed fel¬ 
low, full of fun, and very fond of singing. When quite a 
young man he had been given to drink, and was riotous when 
he had had too much; but after he married he gave up 
drinking, except now and then. 

One summer Aksionov was going to the Nizhny Fair, 
and as he bade good-bye to his family, his wife said to him, 
“Ivan Dmitrich, do not start to-day; I have had a bad 
dream about you.” 

Aksionov laughed, and said, “You are afraid that when I 
get to the fair I shall go on a spree.” 

His wife replied: “I do not know what I am afraid of; 
all I know is that I had a bad dream. I dreamt you re¬ 
turned from the town, and when you took off your cap I 
saw that your hair was quite grey.” 

Aksionov laughed. “That’s a lucky sign,” said he. “See 
if I don’t sell out all my goods, and bring you some pres¬ 
ents from the fair.” 

So he said good-bye to his family, and drove away. 

When he had travelled half-way, he met a merchant whom 
he knew, and they put up at the same inn for the night. 
They had some tea together, and then went to bed in adjoin¬ 
ing rooms. 

It was not Aksionov’s habit to sleep late, and, wishing to 
travel while it was still cool, he aroused his driver before 
dawn, and told him to put in the horses. 

Then he made his way across to the landlord of the inn 
(who lived in a cottage at the back), paid his bill, and con¬ 
tinued his journey. 


79 


8o 


BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 


When he had gone about twenty-five miles, he stopped for 
the horses to be fed. Aksionov rested awhile in the passage 
of the inn, then he stepped out into the porch, and, order¬ 
ing a samovar to be heated, got out his guitar and began 
to play. 

Suddenly a troika drove up with tinkling bells and an 
official alighted, followed by two soldiers. He came to 
Aksionov and began to question him, asking him who he 
was and whence he came. Aksionov answered him fully, 
and said, “Won’t you have some tea with me?” But the 
official went on cross-questioning him and asking him, 
“Where did you spend last night? Were you alone, or with 
a fellow-merchant? Did you see the other merchant this 
morning? Why did you leave the inn before dawn?” 

Aksionov wondered why he was asked all these questions, 
but he described all that had happened, and then added, 
“Why do you cross-question me as if I were a thief or a 
robber? I am travelling on business of my own, and there 
is no need to question me.” 

Then the official, calling the soldiers, said, “I am the 
police-officer of this district, and I question you because 
the merchant with whom you spent last night has been found 
with his throat cut. We must search your things.” 

They entered the house. The soldiers and the police-offi¬ 
cer unstrapped Aksionov’s luggage and searched it. Sud¬ 
denly the officer drew a knife out of a bag, crying, “Whose 
knife is this?” 

Aksionov looked, and seeing a blood-stained knife taken 
from his bag, he was frightened. 

“How is it there is blood on this knife?” 

Aksionov tried to answer, but could hardly utter a word, 
and only stammered: “I—don’t know—not mine.” 

Then the police-officer said: “This morning the merchant 
was found in bed with his throat cut. You are the only 
person who could have done it. The house was locked from 
inside, and no one else was there. Here is this blood-stained 
knife in your bag, and your face and manner betray you! 
Tell me how you killed him, and how much money you 
stole?” 

Aksionov swore he had not done it; that he had not seen 


GOD SEES THE TRUTH, BUT WAITS 81 

the merchant after they had had tea together; that he had 
no money except eight thousand rubles of his own, and 
that the knife was not his. But his voice was broken, 
his face pale, and he trembled with fear as though he were 
guilty. 

The police-officer ordered the soldiers to bind Aksionov 
and to put him in the cart. As they tied his feet together 
and flung him into the cart, Aksionov crossed himself and 
wept. His money and goods were taken from him, and he 
was sent to the nearest town and imprisoned there. En¬ 
quiries as to his character were made in Vladimir. The 
merchants and other inhabitants of that town said that in 
former days he used to drink and waste his time, but that 
he was a good man. Then the trial came on: he was charged 
with murdering a merchant from Ryazan, and robbing him 
of twenty thousand rubles. 

His wife was in despair, and did not know what to be¬ 
lieve. Her children were all quite small; one was a baby 
at her breast. Taking them all with her, she went to the 
town where her husband was in jail. At first she was not 
allowed to see him; but after much begging, she obtained 
permission from the officials, and was taken to him. When 
she saw her husband in prison-dress and in chains, shut up 
with thieves and criminals, she fell down, and did not come 
to her senses for a long time. Then she drew her children 
to her, and sat down near him. She told him of things at 
home, and asked about what had happened to him. He 
told her all, and she asked, “What can we do now?” 

“We must petition the Czar not to let an innocent man 
perish.” 

His wife told him that she had sent a petition to the Czar, 
but it had not been accepted. 

Aksionov did not reply, but only looked downcast. 

Then his wife said, “It was not for nothing I dreamt your 
hair had turned grey. You remember? You should not 
have started that day.” And passing her fingers through his 
hair, she said: “Vanya dearest, tell your wife the truth; 
was it not you who did it?” 

“So you, too, suspect me!” said Aksionov, and, hiding his 
face in his hands, he began to weep. Then a soldier came 


82 


BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES - 


to say that the wife and children must go away; and Aksio- 
nov said good-bye to his family for the last time. 

When they were gone, Aksionov recalled what had been 
said, and when he remembered that his wife also had sus¬ 
pected him, he said to himself, “It seems that only God 
can know the truth; it is to Him alone we must appeal, and 
from Him alone expect mercy.” 

And Aksionov wrote no more petitions; gave up all hope, 
and only prayed to God. 

Aksionov was condemned to be flogged and sent to the 
mines. So he was flogged with a knot, and when the wounds 
made by the knot were healed, he was driven to Siberia 
with other convicts. 

For twenty-six years Aksionov lived as a convict in Si¬ 
beria. His hair turned white as snow, and his beard grew 
long, thin, and grey. All his mirth went; he stooped; he 
walked slowly, spoke little, and never laughed, but he often 
prayed. 

In prison Aksionov learnt to make boots, and earned a 
little money, with which he bought The Lives of the Saints . 
He read this book when there was light enough in the prison; 
and on Sundays in the prison-church he read the lessons and 
sang in the choir; for his voice was still good. 

The prison authorities liked Aksionov for his meekness, 
and his fellow-prisoners respected him: they called him 
“Grandfather,” and “The Saint.” When they wanted to pe¬ 
tition the prison authorities about anything, they always 
made Aksionov their spokesman, and when there were quar¬ 
rels among the prisoners they came to him to put things 
right, and to judge the matter. 

No news reached Aksionov from his home, and he 
did not even know if his wife and children were still 
alive. 

One day a fresh gang of convicts came to the prison. In 
the evening the old prisoners collected round the new ones 
and asked them what towns or villages they came from, and 
what they were sentenced for. Among the rest Aksionov 
sat down near the newcomers, and listened with downcast 
air to what was said. 

One of the new convicts, a tall, strong man of sixty, with 


GOD SEES THE TRUTH, BUT WAITS 83 

a closely-cropped grey beard, was telling the others what 
he had been arrested for. 

# “Well, friends,” he said, “I only took a horse that was 
tied to a sledge, and I was arrested and accused of stealing. 
I said I had only taken it to get home quicker, and had 
then let it go; besides, the driver was a personal friend of 
mine. So I said, ‘It’s all right.’ ‘No,’ said they, ‘you stole 
it.’ But how or where I stole it they could not say. I once 
really did something wrong, and ought by rights to have 
come here long ago, but that time I was not found out. 
Now I have been sent here for nothing at all. . . . Eh, but 
it’s lies I’m telling you; I’ve been to Siberia before, but I 
did not stay long.” 

“Where are you from?” asked some one. 

“From Vladimir. My family are of that town. My name 
is Makar, and they also call me Semyonich.” 

Aksionov raised his head and said: “Tell me, Semyo¬ 
nich, do you know anything of the merchants Aksionov of 
Vladimir? Are they still alive?” 

“Know them? Of course I do. The Aksionovs are rich, 
though their father is in Siberia: a sinner like ourselves, it 
seems! As for you, Gran’dad, how did you come here?” 

Aksionov did not like to speak of his misfortune. He only 
sighed, and said, “For my sins I have been in prison these 
twenty-six years.” 

“What sins?” asked Makar Semyonich. 

But Aksionov only said, “Well, well—I must have de¬ 
served it!” He would have said no more, but his compan¬ 
ions told the newcomers how Aksionov came to be in Siberia; 
how some one had killed a merchant, and had put the knife 
among Aksionov’s things, and Aksionov had been unjustly 
condemned. 

When Makar Semyonich heard this, he looked at Aksio¬ 
nov, slapped his own knee, and exclaimed, “Well, this is 
wonderful! Really wonderful! But how old you’ve grown, 
Gran’dad!” 

The others asked him why he was so surprised, and where 
he had seen Aksionov before; but Makar Semyonich did 
not reply. He only said: “It’s wonderful that we should 
meet here, lads!” 


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These words made Aksionov wonder whether this man 
knew who had killed the merchant; so he said, “Perhaps, 
Semyonich, you have heard of that affair, or maybe you’ve 
seen me before?” 

“How could I help hearing? The world’s full of ru-:- 
mours. But it’s a long time ago, and I’ve forgotten what I 
heard.” 

“Perhaps you heard who killed the merchant?” asked 
Aksionov. 

Makar Semyonich laughed, and replied: “It must have 
been him in whose bag the knife was found! If some one 
else hid the knife there, ‘He’s not a thief till he’s caught,’ as 
the saying is. How could any one put a knife into your bag 
while it was under your head? It would surely have woke 
you up.” 

When Aksionov heard these words, he felt sure this was 
the man who had killed the merchant. He rose and went 
away. All that night Aksionov lay awake. He felt terribly 
unhappy, and all sorts of images rose in his mind. There 
was the image of his wife as she was when he parted from 
her to go to the fair. He saw her as if she were present; 
her face and her eyes rose before him; he heard her speak 
and laugh. Then he saw his children, quite little, as they 
were at that time: one with a little cloak on, another at his 
mother’s breast. And then he remembered himself as he 
used to be—young and merry. He remembered how he sat 
playing the guitar in the porch of the inn where he was ar¬ 
rested, and how free from care he had been. He saw, in his 
mind, the place where he was flogged, the executioner, and 
the people standing around; the chains, the convicts, all the 
twenty-six years of his prison life, and his premature old 
age. The thought of it all made him so wretched that he 
was ready to kill himself. 

“And it’s all that villain’s doing!” thought Aksionov. 
And his anger was so great against Makar Semyonich that 
he longed for vengeance, even if he himself should perish for 
it. He kept repeating prayers all night, but could get no 
peace. During the day he did not go near Makar Semyo¬ 
nich, nor even look at him. 

A fortnight passed in this way. Aksionov could not sleep 


GOD SEES THE TRUTH, BUT WAITS 85 

at night, and was so miserable that he did not know what 
to do. 

One night as he was walking about the prison he noticed 
some earth that came rolling out from under one of the 
shelves on which the prisoners slept. He stopped to see what 
it was. Suddenly Makar Semyonich crept out from under 
the shelf, and looked up at Aksionov with frightened face. 
Aksionov tried to pass without looking at him, but Makar 
seized his hand and told him that he had dug a hole under 
the wall, getting rid of the earth by putting it into his high- 
boots, and emptying it out every day on the road when the 
prisoners were driven to their work. 

“Just you keep quiet, old man, and you shall get out too. 
If you blab, they’ll flog the life out of me, but I will kill 
you first.” 

Aksionov trembled with anger as he looked at his enemy. 
He drew his hand away, saying, “I have no wash to escape, 
and you have no need to kill me; you killed me long ago! 
As to telling of you—I may do so or not, as God shall 
direct.” 

Next day, when the convicts were led out to work, the 
convoy soldiers noticed that one or other of the prisoners 
emptied some earth out of his boots. The prison was 
searched and the tunnel found. The Governor came and 
questioned all the prisoners to find out who had dug the 
hole. They all denied any knowledge of it. Those who 
knew would not betray Makar Semyonich, knowing he 
would be flogged almost to death. At last the Governor 
turned to Aksionov whom he knew to be a just man, and 
said: 

“You are a truthful old man; tell me, before God, who 
dug the hole?” 

Makar Semyonich stood as if he were quite unconcerned, 
looking at the Governor and not so much as glancing at 
Aksionov. Aksionov’s lips and hands trembled, and for a 
long time he could not utter a word. He thought, “Why 
should I screen him who ruined my life? Let him pay for 
what I have suffered. But if I tell, they will probably flog 
the life out of him, and maybe I suspect him wrongly. 
And, after all, what good would it be to me?” 


86 


BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 


“Well, old man,” repeated the Governor, “tell me the 
truth: who has been digging under the wall?” 

Aksionov glanced at Makar Semyonich, and said, “I can¬ 
not say, your honour. It is not God’s will that I should 
tell! Do what you like with me; I am in your hands.” 

However much the Governor tried, Aksionov would say no 
more, and so the matter had to be left. 

That night, when Aksionov was lying on his bed and just 
beginning to doze, some one came quietly and sat down on 
his bed. He peered through the darkness and recognised 
Makar. 

“What more do you want of me?” asked Aksionov. “Why 
have you come here?” 

Makar Semyonich was silent. So Aksionov sat up and 
said, “What do you want? Go away, or I will call the 
guard!” 

Makar Semyonich bent close over Aksionov, and whis¬ 
pered, “Ivan Dmitrich, forgive me!” 

“WEat for?” asked Aksionov. 

“It was I who killed the merchant and hid the knife among 
your things. I meant to kill you too, but I heard a noise 
outside, so I hid the knife in your bag and escaped out of 
the window.” 

Aksionov was silent, and did not know what to say. 
Makar Semyonich slid off the bed-shelf and knelt upon the 
ground. “Ivan Dmitrich,” said he, “forgive me! For the 
love of God, forgive me! I will confess that it was I who 
killed the merchant, and you will be released and can go 
to your home.” 

“It is easy for you to talk,” said Aksionov, “but I have 
suffered for you these twenty-six years. Where could I go 
to now? . . . My wife is dead, and my children have for¬ 
gotten me. I have nowhere to go. . . .” 

Makar Semyonich did not rise, but beat his head on the 
floor. “Ivan Dmitrich, forgive me!” he cried. “When they 
flogged me with the knot it was not so hard to bear as it is 
to see you now . . . yet you had pity on me, and did not 
tell. For Christ’s sake forgive me, wretch that I am!” 
And he began to sob. 

When Aksionov heard him sobbing he, too, began to weep. 


GOD SEES THE TRUTH, BUT WAITS 87 

“God will forgive you!” said he. “Maybe I am a hun¬ 
dred times worse than you.” And at these words his heart 
grew light, and the longing for home left him. He no 
longer had any desire to leave the prison, but only hoped 
for his last hour to come. 

In spite of what Aksionov had said, Makar Semyonich 
confessed his guilt. But when the order for his release came, 
Aksionov was already dead. 


HOW A MUZHIK FED TWO OFFICIALS 


By M. I. Saltykov 
[SHCHEDRIN] 

O NCE upon a time there were two Officials. They were 
both empty-headed, and so they found themselves one 
day suddenly transported to an uninhabited isle, as if on a 
magic carpet. 

They had passed their whole life in a Government De¬ 
partment, where records were kept; had been born there, 
bred there, grown old there, and consequently hadn’t the 
least understanding for anything outside of the Department; 
and the only words they knew were: “With assurances of 
the highest esteem, I am your humble servant.” 

But the Department was abolished, and as the services 
of the two Officials were no longer needed, they were given 
their freedom. So the retired Officials migrated to Pody- 
acheskaya Street in St. Petersburg. Each had his own 
home, his own cook and his pension. 

Waking up on the uninhabited isle, they found themselves 
lying under the same cover. At first, of course, they couldn’t 
understand what had happened to them, and they spoke as 
if nothing extraordinary had taken place. 

“What a peculiar dream I had last night, your Excel¬ 
lency,” said the one Official. “It seemed to me as if I were 
on an uninhabited isle.” 

Scarcely had he uttered the words, when he jumped to his 
feet. The other Official also jumped up. 

“Good Lord, what does this mean! Where are we?” they 
cried out in astonishment. 

They felt each other to make sure that they were no 
longer dreaming, and finally convinced themselves of the 
sad reality. 

Before them stretched the ocean, and behind them was a 

88 


HOW A MUZHIK FED TWO OFFICIALS 89 


little spot of earth, beyond which the ocean stretched again. 
They began to cry—the first time since their Department 
had been shut down. 

They looked at each other, and each noticed that the other 
was clad in nothing but his night shirt with his order hang¬ 
ing about his neck. 

“We really should be having our coffee now,” observed 
the one Official. Then he bethought himself again of the 
strange situation he was in and a second time fell to weeping. 

“What are we going to do now?” he sobbed. “Even sup¬ 
posing we were to draw up a report, what good would that 
do?” 

“You know what, your Excellency,” replied the other Offi¬ 
cial, “you go to the east and I will go to the west. Toward 
evening we will come back here again, and, perhaps, we shall 
have found something.” 

They started to ascertain which was the east and which 
was the west. They recalled that the head of their Depart¬ 
ment had once said to them, “If you want to know where 
the east is, then turn your face to the north, and the east will 
be on your right.” But when they tried to find out which 
was the north, they turned to the right and to the left and 
looked around on all sides. Having spent their whole life in 
the Department of Records, their efforts were all in vain. 

“To my mind, your Excellency, the best thing to do would 
be for you to go to the right and me to go to the left,” said 
one Official, who had served not only in the Department 
of Records, but had also been teacher of handwriting in the 
School for Reserves, and so was a little bit cleverer. 

So said, so done. The one Official went to the right. He 
came upon trees bearing all sorts of fruits. Gladly would 
he have plucked an apple, but they all hung so high that he 
would have been obliged to climb up. He tried to climb up 
in vain. All he succeeded in doing was tearing his night 
shirt. Then he struck upon a brook. It was swarming with 
fish. 

“Wouldn’t it be wonderful if we had all this fish in Pody- 
acheskaya Street!” he thought, and his mouth watered. 
Then he entered woods and found partridges, grouse and 
hares. 


90 


BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 


“Good Lord, what an abundance of food I” he cried. His 
hunger was going up tremendously. 

But he had to return to the appointed spot with empty 
hands. He found the other Official waiting for him. 

“Well, Your Excellency, how went it? Did you find any¬ 
thing?” 

“Nothing but an old number of the Moscow Gazette, 
not another thing.” 

The Officials lay down to sleep again, but their empty 
stomachs gave them no rest. They were partly robbed of 
their sleep by the thought of who was now enjoying their 
pension, and partly by the recollection of the fruit, fishes, 
partridges, grouse and hares that they had seen during the 
day. 

“The human pabulum in its original form flies, swims and 
grows on trees. Who would have thought it your Excel¬ 
lency?” said the one Official. 

“To be sure,” rejoined the other Official. “I, too, must 
admit that I had imagined that our breakfast rolls came 
into the world just as they appear on the table.” 

“From which it is to be deduced that if we want to eat 
a pheasant, we must catch it first, kill it, pull its feathers 
and roast it. But how’s that to be done?” 

“Yes, how’s that to be done?” repeated the other Offi¬ 
cial. 

They turned silent and tried again to fall asleep, but their 
hunger scared sleep away. Before their eyes swarmed 
flocks of pheasants and ducks, herds of porklings, and they 
were all so juicy, done so tenderly and garnished so deli¬ 
ciously with olives, capers and pickles. 

“I believe I could devour my own boots now,” said the 
one Official. 

“Gloves are not bad either, especially if they have been 
born quite mellow,” said the other Official. 

The two Officials stared at each other fixedly. In their 
glances gleamed an evil-boding fire, their teeth chattered and 
a dull groaning issued from their breasts. Slowly they 
crept upon each other and suddenly they burst into a fear¬ 
ful frenzy. There was a yelling and groaning, the rags 
flew about, and the Official who had been teacher of hand- 


HOW A MUZHIK FED TWO OFFICIALS 91 

writing bit off his colleague’s order and swallowed it. How¬ 
ever, the sight of blood brought them both back to their 
senses. 

“God help us!” they cried at the same time. “We cer¬ 
tainly don’t mean to eat each other up. How could we 
have come to such a pass as this? What evil genius is 
making sport of us?” 

“We must, by all means, entertain each other to pass 
the time away, otherwise there will be murder and death,” 
said the one Official. 

“You begin,” said the other. 

“Can you explain why it is that the sun first rises and 
then sets? Why isn’t it the reverse?” 

“Aren’t you a funny man, your Excellency? You get up 
first, then you go to your office and work there, and at 
night you lie down to sleep.” 

“But why can’t one assume the opposite, that is, that 
one goes to bed, sees all sorts of dream figures, and then 
gets up?” 

“Well, yes, certainly. But when I was still an Official, 
I always thought this way: ‘Now it is dawn, then it will 
be day, then will come supper, and finally will come the 
time to go to bed.’ ” 

The word “supper” recalled that incident in the day’s 
doings, and the thought of it made both Officials melan¬ 
choly, so that the conversation came to a halt. 

“A doctor once told me that human beings can sustain 
themselves for a long time on their own juices,” the one 
Official began again. 

“What does that mean?” 

“It is quite simple. You see, one’s own juices generate 
other juices, and these in their turn still other juices, and so 
it goes on until finally all the juices are consumed.” 

“And then what happens?” 

“Then food has to be taken into the system again.” 

“The devil!” 

“No matter what topic the Officials chose, the conversa¬ 
tion invariably reverted to the subject of eating; which only 
increased their appetite more and more. So they decided 
to give up talking altogether, and, recollecting the Moscow 


92 


BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 


Gazette that the one of them had found, they picked it up 
and began to read it eagerly. 


BANQUET GIVEN BY THE MAYOR 

“The table was set for one hundred persons. The mag¬ 
nificence of it exceeded all expectations. The remotest prov¬ 
inces were represented at this feast of the gods by the cost¬ 
liest gifts. The golden sturgeon from Sheksna and the silver 
pheasant from the Caucasian woods held a rendezvous with 
strawberries so seldom to be had in our latitude in win¬ 
ter. . . 

“The devil! For God’s sake, stop reading, your Excel¬ 
lency. Couldn’t you find something else to read about?” 
cried the other Official in sheer desperation. He snatched 
the paper from his colleague’s hands, and started to read 
something else. 

“Our correspondent in Tula informs us that yesterday a 
sturgeon was found in the Upa (an event which even the 
oldest inhabitants cannot recall, and all the more remark¬ 
able since they recognised the former police captain in this 
sturgeon). This was made the occasion for giving a ban¬ 
quet in the club. The prime cause of the banquet was 
served in a large wooden platter garnished with vinegar 
pickles. A bunch of parsley stuck out of its mouth. Doctor 

P-who acted as toast-master saw to it that everybody 

present got a piece of the sturgeon. The sauces to go with 
it were unusually varied and delicate-” 

“Permit me, your Excellency, it seems to me you are not 
so careful either in the selection of reading matter,” inter¬ 
rupted the first Official, who secured the Gazette again and 
started to read: 

“One of the oldest inhabitants of Viatka has discovered a 
new and highly original recipe for fish soup. A live cod¬ 
fish (lata vulgaris) is taken and beaten with a rod until its 
liver swells up with anger. . . .” 

The Officials’ heads drooped. Whatever their eyes fell 
upon had something to do with eating. Even their own 
thoughts were fatal. No matter how much they tried to 




HOW A MUZHIK FED TWO OFFICIALS 93 

keep their minds off beefsteak and the like, it was all in 
vain; their fancy returned invariably, with irresistible force, 
back to that for which they were so painfully yearning. 

Suddenly an inspiration came to the Official who had once 
taught handwriting. 

“I have it!” he cried delightedly. “What do you say to 
this, your Excellency? What do you say to our finding 
a muzhik?” 

“A muzhik, your Excellency? What sort of a muzhik?” 

“Why a plain ordinary muzhik. A muzhik like all other 
muzhiks. He would get the breakfast rolls for us right 
away, and he could also catch partridges and fish for us.” 

“Hm, a muzhik. But where are we to fetch one from, if 
there is no muzhik here?” 

“Why shouldn’t there be a muzhik here? There are mu¬ 
zhiks everywhere. All one has to do is hunt for them. There 
certainly must be a muzhik hiding here somewhere so as 
to get out of working.” 

This thought so cheered the Officials that they instantly 
jumped up to go in search of a muzhik. 

For a long while they wandered about on the island with¬ 
out the desired result, until finally a concentrated smell of 
black bread and old sheep skin assailed their nostrils and 
guided them in the right direction. There under a tree was 
a colossal muzhik lying fast asleep with his hands under his 
head. It was clear that to escape his duty to work he had 
impudently withdrawn to this island. The indignation of 
the Officials knew no bounds. 

“What, lying asleep here, you lazy-bones you! ” they raged 
at him. “It is nothing to you that there are two Officials 
here who are fairly perishing of hunger. Up, forward, 
march, work.” 

The Muzhik rose and looked at the two severe gentle¬ 
men standing in front of him. His first thought was to 
make his escape, but the Officials held him fast. 

He had to submit to his fate. He had to work. 

First he climbed up on a tree and plucked several dozen 
of the finest apples for the Officials. He kept a rotten one 
for himself. Then he turned up the earth and dug out 
some potatoes. Next he started a fire with two bits of 


94 


BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 


wood that he rubbed against each other. Out of his own 
hair he made a snare and caught partridges. Over the fire, 
by this time burning brightly, he cooked so many kinds of 
food that the question arose in the Officials’ minds whether 
they shouldn’t give some to this idler. 

Beholding the efforts of the Muzhik, they rejoiced in their 
hearts. They had already forgotten how the day before 
they had nearly been perishing of hunger, and all they 
thought of now was: “What a good thing it is to be an 
Official. Nothing bad can ever happen to an Official.” 

“Are you satisfied, gentlemen?” the lazy Muzhik asked. 

“Yes, we appreciate your industry,” replied the Officials. 

“Then you will permit me to rest a little?” 

“Go take a little rest, but first make a good strong cord.” 

The Muzhik gathered wild hemp stalks, laid them in 
water, beat them and broke them, and toward evening a 
good stout cord was ready. The Officials took the cord and 
bound the Muzhik to a tree, so that he should not run 
away. Then they laid themselves to sleep. 

Thus day after day passed, and the Muzhik became so 
skilful that he could actually cook soup for the Officials 
in his bare hands. The Officials had become round and 
well-fed and happy. It rejoiced them that here they needn’t 
spend any money and that in the meanwhile their pensions 
were accumulating in St. Petersburg. 

“What is your opinion, your Excellency,” one said to 
the other after breakfast one day, “is the Story of the 
Tower of Babel true? Don’t you think it is simply an 
allegory?” 

“By no means, your Excellency, I think it was some¬ 
thing that really happened. What other explanation is 
there for the existence of so many different languages on 
earth?” 

“Then the Flood must really have taken place, too?” 

“Certainly, else how would you explain the existence of 
Antediluvian animals? Besides, the Moscow Gazette 
says-” 

They made search for the old number of the Moscow 
Gazette , seated themselves in the shade, and read the whole 
sheet from beginning to end. They read of festivities in 



HOW A MUZHIK FED TWO OFFICIALS 95 

Moscow, Tula, Penza and Riazan, and strangely enough felt 
no discomfort at the description of the delicacies served. 

There is no saying how long this life might have lasted. 
Finally, however, it began to bore the Officials. They often 
thought of their cooks in St. Petersburg, and even shed a few 
tears in secret. 

“I wonder how it looks in Podyacheskaya Street now, your 
Excellency,” one of them said to the other. 

“Oh, don’t remind me of it, your Excellency. I am pining 
away with homesickness.” 

“It is very nice here. There is really no fault to be found 
with this place, but the lamb longs for its mother sheep. 
And it is a pity, too, for the beautiful uniforms.” 

“Yes, indeed, a uniform of the fourth class is no joke. 
The gold embroidery alone is enough to make one dizzy.” 

Now they began to importune the Muzhik to find some 
way of getting them back to Podyacheskaya Street, and 
strange to say, the Muzhik even knew where Podyacheskaya 
Street was. He had once drank beer and mead there, and 
as the saying goes, everything had run down his beard, alas, 
but nothing into his mouth. The Officials rejoiced and said: 
“We are Officials from Podyacheskaya Street.” 

“And I am one of those men—do you remember?—who 
sif on a scaffolding hung by ropes from the roofs and paint 
the outside walls. I am one of those who crawl about on 
the roofs like flies. That is what I am,” replied the Muzhik. 

The Muzhik now pondered long and heavily on how to 
give great pleasure to his Officials, who had been so gracious 
to him, the lazy-bones, and had not scorned his work. And 
he actually succeeded in constructing a ship. It was not 
really a ship, but still it was a vessel that would carry them 
across the ocean close to Podyacheskaya Street. 

“Now, take care, you dog, that you don’t drown us,” said 
the Officials, when they saw the raft rising and falling on 
the waves. 

“Don’t be afraid. We muzhiks are used to this,” said 
the Muzhik, making all the preparations for the journey. 
He gathered swan’s-down and made a couch for his two 
Officials, then he crossed himself and rowed off from shore. 

How frightened the Officials were on the way, how sea- 


96 


BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 


sick they were during the storms, how they scolded the 
coarse Muzhik for his idleness, can neither be told nor 
described. The Muzhik, however, just kept rowing on and 
fed his Officials on herring. At last, they caught sight of 
dear old Mother Neva. Soon they were in the glorious 
Catherine Canal, and then, oh joy! they struck the grand 
Podyacheskaya Street. When the cooks saw their Officials 
so well-fed, round and so happy, they rejoiced immensely. 
The Officials drank coffee and rolls, then put on their uni¬ 
forms and drove to the Pension Bureau. How much money 
they collected there is another thing that can neither be 
told nor described. Nor was the Muzhik forgotten. The 
Officials sent a glass of whiskey out to him and five kopeks. 

Now, Muzhik, rejoice. 


THE SHADES, A PHANTASY 


By Vladimir G. Korolenko 


I 



MONTH and two days had elapsed since the judges, 


amid the loud acclaim of the Athenian people, had 
pronounced the death sentence against the philosopher Soc¬ 
rates because he had sought to destroy faith in the gods. 
What the gadfly is to the horse Socrates was to Athens. 
The gadfly stings the horse in order to prevent it from doz¬ 
ing off and to keep it moving briskly on its course. The 
philosopher said to the people of Athens: 

“I am your gadfly. My sting pricks your conscience and 
arouses you when you are caught napping. Sleep not, sleep 
not, people of Athens; awake and seek the truth!” 

The people arose in their exasperation and cruelly de¬ 
manded to be rid of their gadfly. 

“Perchance both of his accusers, Meletus and Anytus, 
are wrong,” said the citizens, on leaving the court after sen¬ 
tence had been pronounced. 

“But after all whither do his doctrines tend? What 
would he do? He has wrought confusion, he overthrows 
beliefs that have existed since the beginning, he speaks of 
new virtues which must be recognised and sought for, he 
speaks of a Divinity hitherto unknown to us. The blas¬ 
phemer, he deems himself wiser than the gods! No, ’twere 
better we remain true to the old gods whom we know. They 
may not always be just, sometimes they may flare up in 
unjust wrath, and they may also be seized with a wanton 
lust for the wives of mortals; but did not our ancestors 
live with them in the peace of their souls, did not our fore¬ 
fathers accomplish their heroic deeds with the help of these 
very gods? And now the faces of the Olympians have paled 
and the old virtue is out of joint. What does it all lead to? 


97 


98 BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 

Should not an end be put to this impious wisdom once for 
all?” 

Thus the citizens of Athens spoke to one another as they 
left the place, and the blue twilight was falling. They had 
determined to kill the restless gadfly in the hope that the 
countenances of the gods would shine again. And yet— 
before their souls arose the mild figure of the singular 
philosopher. There were some citizens who recalled how 
courageously he had shared their troubles and dangers at 
Potidsea; how he alone had prevented them from commit¬ 
ting the sin of unjustly executing the generals after the vic¬ 
tory over the Arginusae; how he alone had dared to raise 
his voice against the tyrants who had had fifteen hundred 
people put to death, speaking to the people on the market¬ 
place concerning shepherds and their sheep. 

“Is not he a good shepherd,” he asked, “who guards his 
flock and watches over its increase? Or is it the work of 
the good shepherd to reduce the number of his sheep and 
disperse them, and of the good ruler to do the same with his 
people? Men of Athens, let us investigate this question!” 

And at this question of the solitary, undefended philoso¬ 
pher, the faces of the tyrants paled, while the eyes of the 
youths kindled with the fire of just wrath and indignation. 

Thus, when on dispersing after the sentence the Athenians 
recalled all these things of Socrates, their hearts were op¬ 
pressed with heavy doubt. 

“Have we not done a cruel wrong to the son of Sophron- 
iscus?” 

But then the good Athenians looked upon the harbour and 
the sea, and in the red glow of the dying day they saw the 
purple sails of the sharp-keeled ship, sent to the Delian fes¬ 
tival, shimmering in the distance on the blue Pontus. The 
ship would not return until the expiration of a month, and 
the Athenians recollected that during this time no blood 
might be shed in Athens, whether the blood of the inno¬ 
cent or the guilty. A month, moreover, has many days and 
still more hours. Supposing the son of Sophroniscus had 
been unjustly condemned, who would hinder his escaping 
from the prison, especially since he had numerous friends 
to help him? Was it so difficult for the rich Plato, for 


99 


THE SHADES, A PHANTASY 

iEschines and others to bribe the guards? Then the rest¬ 
less gadfly would flee from Athens to the barbarians in 
Thessaly, or to the Peloponnesus, or, still farther, to Egypt; 
Athens would no longer hear his blasphemous speeches; 
his death would not weigh upon the conscience of the 
worthy citizens, and so everything would end for the best 
of all. 

Thus said many to themselves that evening, while aloud 
they praised the wisdom of the demos and the heliasts. 
In secret, however, they cherished the hope that the rest¬ 
less philosopher would leave Athens, fly from the hemlock 
to the barbarians, and so free the Athenians of his trouble¬ 
some presence and of the pangs of conscience that smote 
them for inflicting death upon an innocent man. 

Two and thirty times since that evening had the sun 
risen from the ocean and dipped down into it again. The 
ship had returned from Delos and lay in the harbour with 
sadly drooping sails, as if ashamed of its native city. The 
moon did not shine in the heavens, the sea heaved under 
a heavy fog, and on the hills lights peered through the 
obscurity like the eyes of men gripped .by a sense of guilt. 

The stubborn Socrates did not spare the conscience of 
the good Athenians. 

“We part! You go home and I go to death,” he said 
to the judges after the sentence had been pronounced. “I 
know not, my friends, which of us chooses the better lot!” 

As the time had approached for the return of the ship, 
many of the citizens had begun to feel uneasy. Must that 
obstinate fellow really die? And they began to appeal to 
the consciences of iEschines, Phaedo, and other pupils of Soc¬ 
rates, trying to urge them on to further efforts for their 
master. 

“Will you permit your teacher to die?” they asked re¬ 
proachfully in biting tones. “Or do you grudge the few 
coins it would take to bribe the guard?” 

In vain Crito besought Socrates to take to flight, and 
complained that the public was upbraiding his disciples 
with lack of friendship and with avarice. The self-willed 
philosopher refused to gratify his pupils or the good people 
of Athens. 

“Let us investigate,” he said. “If it turns out that I must 


100 BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 

flee, I will flee; but if I must die, I will die. Let us re¬ 
member what we once said—the wise man need not fear 
death, he need fear nothing but falsehood. Is it right to 
abide by the laws we ourselves have made so long as they 
are agreeable to us, and refuse to obey those which are 
disagreeable? If my memory does not deceive me, I be¬ 
lieve we once spoke of these things, did we not?” 

“Yes, we did,” answered his pupil. 

“And I think all were agreed as to the answer?” 

“Yes.” 

“But perhaps what is true for others is not true for us?” 

“No, truth is alike for all, including ourselves.” 

“But perhaps when we must die and not some one else, 
truth becomes untruth?” 

“No, Socrates, truth remains the truth under all circum¬ 
stances.” 

After his pupil had thus agreed to each promise of Soc¬ 
rates in turn, he smiled and drew his conclusion. 

“If that is so, my friend, mustn’t I die? Or has my 
head already become so weak that I am no longer in a con¬ 
dition to draw a logical conclusion? Then correct me, my 
friend, and show my erring brain the right way.” 

His pupil covered his face with his mantle and turned 
aside. 

“Yes,” he said, “now I see you must die.” 

And on that evening, when the sea tossed hither and 
thither and roared dully under the load of fog, and the 
whimsical wind in mournful astonishment gently stirred the 
sails of the ships; when the citizens meeting on the streets 
asked one another: “Is he dead?” and their voices timidly 
betrayed the hope that he was not dead; when the first 
breath of awakened conscience touched the hearts of the 
Athenians like the first messenger of the storm; and when, 
it seemed, the very faces of the gods were darkened with 
shame—on that evening at the sinking of the sun the self- 
willed man drank the cup of death! 

The wind increased in violence and shrouded the city 
more closely in the veil of mist, angrily tugging at the sails 
of the vessels delayed in the harbour. And the Erinyes sang 
their gloomy songs to the hearts of the citizens and whipped 


THE SHADES, A PHANTASY ioi 

up in their breasts that tempest which was later to over¬ 
whelm the denouncers of Socrates. 

But in that hour the first stirrings of regret were still un¬ 
certain and confused. The citizens found more fault with 
Socrates than ever because he had not given them the sat¬ 
isfaction of fleeing to Thessaly; they were annoyed with his 
pupils because in the last days they had walked about in 
sombre mourning attire, a living reproach to the Athenians; 
they were vexed with the judges because they had not had 
the sense and the courage to resist the blind rage of the 
excited people; they bore even the gods resentment. 

“To you, ye gods, have we brought this sacrifice,” spoke 
many. “Rejoice, ye unsalable!” 

“I know not which of us chooses the better lot!” 

Those words of Socrates came back to their memory, 
those his last words to the judges and to the people gathered 
in the court. Now he lay in the prison quiet and motion¬ 
less under his cloak, while over the city hovered mourning, 
horror, and shame. 

Again he became the tormentor of the city, he who was 
himself no longer accessible to torment. The gadfly had 
been killed, but it stung the people more sharply than ever 
*—sleep not, sleep not this night, O men of Athens! Sleep 
not! You have committed an injustice, a cruel injustice, 
which can never be erased! 


II 

During those sad days Xenophon, the general, a pupil of 
Socrates, was marching with his Ten Thousand in a dis¬ 
tant land, amid dangers, seeking a way of return to his be¬ 
loved fatherland. 

iEschines, Crito, Critobulus, Phaedo, and Apollodorus 
were now occupied with the preparations for the modest 
funeral. 

Plato was burning his lamp and bending over a parch¬ 
ment; the best disciple of the philosopher was busy in¬ 
scribing the deeds, words, and teachings that marked the 
end of the sage’s life. A thought is never lost, and the 


io2 BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 

truth discovered by a great intellect illumines the way for 
future generations like a torch in the dark. 

There was one other disciple of Socrates. Not long be¬ 
fore, the impetuous Ctesippus had been one of the most 
frivolous and pleasure-seeking of the Athenian youths. He 
had set up beauty as his sole god, and had bowed before 
Clinias as its highest exemplar. But since he had become 
acquainted with Socrates,"all desire for pleasure and all 
light-mindedness had gone from him. He looked on indiffer¬ 
ently while others took his place with Clinias. The grace 
of thought and the harmony of spirit that he found in Soc¬ 
rates seemed a hundred times more attractive than the 
graceful form and the harmonious features of Clinias. With 
all the intensity of his stormy temperament he .hung on 
the man who had disturbed the serenity of his virginal soul, 
which for the first time opened to doubts as the bud of a 
young oak opens to the fresh winds of spring. 

Now that the master was dead, he could find peace 
neither at his own hearth nor in the oppressive stillness 
of the streets, nor among his friends and fellow-disciples. 
The gods of hearth and home and the gods of the people 
inspired him with repugnance. 

“I know not,” he said, “whether ye are the best of all 
the gods to whom numerous generations have burned in¬ 
cense and brought offerings; all I know is that for your 
sake the blind mob extinguished the clear torch of truth, 
and for your sake sacrificed the greatest and best of 
mortals!” 

It almost seemed to Ctesippus as though the streets 
and market-places still echoed with the shrieking of that 
unjust sentence. And he remembered how it was here 
that the people clamoured for the execution of the gen¬ 
erals who had led them to victory against the Argunisae, 
and how Socrates alone had opposed the savage sentence of 
the judges and the blind rage of the mob. But when 
Socrates himself needed a champion, no one had t^een 
found to defend him with equal strength. Ctesippus blamed 
himself and his friends, and for that reason he wanted 
to avoid everybody—even himself, if possible. 

That evening he went to the sea. But his grief grew 


103 


THE SHADES, A PHANTASY 

only the more violent. It seemed to him that the mourn¬ 
ing daughters of Nereus were tossing hither and thither 
on the shore bewailing the death of the best of the Athenians 
and the folly of the frenzied city. The waves broke on 
the rocky coast with a growl of lament. Their booming 
sounded like a funeral dirge. 

He turned away, left the shore, and went on further 
without looking before him. He forgot time and space 
and his own ego, filled only with the afflicting thought of 
Socrates. 

“Yesterday he still was, yesterday his mild words still 
could be heard. How is it possible that to-day he no longer 
is? O night, O giant mountain shrouded in mist, O heav¬ 
ing sea moved by your own life, O restless winds that carry 
the breath of an immeasurable world on your wings, O 
starry vault flecked with flying clouds—take me to you, 
disclose to me the mystery of this death, if it is revealed 
to you! And if ye know not, then grant my ignorant soul 
your own lofty indifference. Remove from me these tor¬ 
turing questions. I no Longer have strength to carry them 
in my bosom without an answer, without even the hope 
of an answer. For who shall answer them, now that the 
lips of Socrates are sealed in eternal silence, and eternal 
darkness is laid upon his lids?” 

Thus Ctesippus cried out to the sea and the mountains, 
and to the dark night, which followed its invariable course, 
ceaselessly, invisibly, over the slumbering world. Many 
hours passed before Ctesippus glanced up and saw whither 
his steps had unconsciously led him. A dark horror seized 
his soul as he looked atiout him. 


Ill 

It seemed as if the unknown gods of eternal night had 
heard his impious prayer. Ctesippus looked about, without 
being able to recognise the place where he was. The lights 
of the city had long been extinguished by the darkness. 
The roaring of the sea had died away in the distance; his 
anxious soul had even lost the recollection of having heard 


io 4 BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 

it. No single sound—no mournful cry of nocturnal bird, 
nor whirr of wings, nor rustling of trees, nor murmur of 
a merry stream—broke the deep silence. Only the blind 
will-o’-the-wisps flickered here and there over rocks, and 
sheet-lightning, unaccompanied by any sound, flared up and 
died down against crag-peaks. This brief illumination 
merely emphasised the darkness; and the dead light dis¬ 
closed the outlines of dead deserts crossed by gorges like 
crawling serpents, and rising into rocky heights in a wild 
chaos. 

All the joyous gods that haunt green groves, purling 
brooks, and mountain valleys seemed to have fled forever 
from these deserts. Pan alone, the great and mysterious 
Pan, was hiding somewhere nearby in the chaos of nature, 
and with mocking glance seemed to be pursuing the tiny 
ant that a short time before had blasphemously asked to 
know the secret of the world and of death. Dark, sense¬ 
less horror overwhelmed the soul of Ctesippus. It is thus 
that the sea in stormy floodtide overwhelms a rock on the 
shore. 

Was it a dream, was it reality, or was it the revelation 
of the unknown divinity? Ctesippus felt that in an instant 
he would step across the threshold of life, and that his 
soul would melt into an ocean of unending, inconceivable 
horror like a drop of rain in the waves of the grey sea on 
a dark and stormy night. But at this moment he sud¬ 
denly heard voices that seemed familiar to him, and in 
the glare of the sheet-lightning his eyes recognised human 
figures. 


IV 

On a rocky slope sat a man in deep despair. He had 
thrown a cloak over his head and was bowed to the ground. 
Another figure approached him softly, cautiously climbing 
upward and carefully feeling every step. The first man 
uncovered his face and exclaimed: 

“Is that you I just now saw, my good Socrates? Is 
that you passing by me in this cheerless place? I have 
already spent many hours here without knowing when day 


THE SHADES, A PHANTASY 105 

will relieve the night. I have been waiting in vain for the 
dawm.” 

“Yes, I am Socrates, my friend, and you, are you not 
Elpidias who died three days before me?” 

“Yes, I am Elpidias, formerly the richest tanner in 
Athens, now the most miserable of slaves. For the first 
time I understand the words of the poet: ‘Better to be a 
slave in this world than a ruler in gloomy Hades.’ ” 

“My friend, if it is disagreeable for you where you are, 
why don’t you move to another spot?” 

“O Socrates, I marvel at you—how dare you wander 
about in this cheerless gloom? I—I sit here overcome with 
grief and bemoan the joys of a fleeting life.” 

“Friend Elpidias, like you, I, too, was plunged in this 
gloom when the light of earthly life was removed from 
my eyes. But an inner voice told me: ‘Tread this new 
path without hesitation,’ and I went.” 

“But whither do you go, O son of Sophroniscus? Here 
there is no way, no path, not even a ray of light; nothing 
but a chaos of rocks, mist, and gloom.” 

“True. But, my Elpidias, since you are aware of this 
sad truth, have you not asked yourself what is the most 
distressing thing in your present situation?” 

“Undoubtedly the dismal darkness.” 

“Then one should seek for light. Perchance you will 
find here the great law—that mortals must in darkness seek 
the source of life. Do you not think it is better so to 
seek than to remain sitting in one spot? I think it is, 
therefore I keep walking. Farewell!” 

“Oh, good Socrates, abandon me not! You go with sure 
steps through the pathless chaos in Hades. Hold out to 
me but a fold of your mantle-” 

“If you think it is better for you, too, then follow me, 
friend Elpidias.” 

And the two shades walked on, while the soul of Ctesip- 
pus, released by sleep from its mortal envelop, flew after 
them, greedily absorbing the tones of the clear Socratic 
speech. 

“Are you here, good Socrates?” the voice of the Athenian 
again was heard. “Why are you silent? Converse shortens 



io6 BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 

the way, and I swear, by Hercules, never did I have to 
traverse such a horrid way.” 

“Put questions, friend Elpidias! The question of one 
who seeks knowledge brings forth answers and produces 
conversation.” 

Elpidias maintained silence for a moment, and then, after 
he had collected his thoughts, asked: 

“Yes, this is what I wanted to say—tell me, my poor 
Socrates, did they at least give you a good burial?” 

“I must confess, friend Elpidias, I cannot satisfy your 
curiosity.” 

“I understand, my poor Socrates, it doesn’t help you cut 
a figure. Now with me it was so different! Oh, how they 
buried me, how magnificently they buried me, my poo^ 
fellow-wanderer! I still think with great pleasure of those 
lovely moments after my death. First they washed me 
and sprinkled me with well-smelling balsam. Then my 
faithful Larissa dressed me in garments of the finest weave. 
The best mourning-women of the city tore their hair from 
their heads because they had been promised good pay, and 
in the family vault they placed an amphora—a crater with 
beautiful, decorated handles of bronze, and, besides, a 
vial-” 

“Stay, friend Elpidias. I am convinced that the faith¬ 
ful Larissa converted her love into several minas. Yet-” 

“Exactly ten minas and four drachmas, not counting the 
drinks for the guests. I hardly think that the richest tanner 
can come before the souls of his ancestors and boast of 
such respect on the part of the living.” 

“Friend Elpidias, don’t you think that money would 
have been of more use to the poor people who are still 
alive in Athens than to you at this moment?” 

“Admit, Socrates, you are speaking in envy,” responded 
Elpidias, pained. “I am sorry for you, unfortunate Soc¬ 
rates, although, between ourselves, you really deserved 
your fate. I myself in the family circle said more than 
once that an end ought to be put to your impious doings, 
because-” 

“Stay, friend, I thought you wanted to draw a con¬ 
clusion, and I fear you are straying from the straight 





THE SHADES, A PHANTASY 107 

path. Tell me, my good friend, whither does your waver¬ 
ing thought tend?” 

“I wanted to say that in my goodness I am sorry for 
you. A month ago I myself spoke against you in the 
assembly, but truly none of us who shouted so loud wanted 
such a great ill to befall you. Believe me, now I am all 
the sorrier for you, unhappy philosopher!” 

“I thank you. But tell me, my friend, do you perceive 
a brightness before your eyes?” 

“No, on the contrary such darkness lies before me that 
I must ask myself whether this is not the misty region 
of Orcus.” 

“This way, therefore, is just as dark for you as for 
me?” 

“Quite right.” 

“If I am not mistaken, you are even holding on to the 
folds of my cloak?” 

“Also true.” 

“Then we are in the same position? You see your 
ancestors are not hastening to rejoice in the tale of your 
pompous burial. Where is the difference between us, my 
good friend?” 

“But, Socrates, have the gods enveloped your reason in 
such obscurity that the difference is not clear to you?” 

“Friend, if your situation is clearer to you, then give me 
your hand and lead me, for I swear, by the dog, you let 
me go ahead in this darkness.” 

“Cease your scoffing, Socrates! Do not make sport, 
and do not compare yourself, your godless self, with a man 
who died in his own bed-” 

“Ah, I believe I am beginning to understand you. But 
tell me, Elpidias, do you hope ever again to rejoice in 
your bed?” 

“Oh, I think not.” 

“And was there ever a time when you did not sleep 
in it?” 

“Yes. That was before I bought goods from Agesilaus 
at half their value. You see, that Agesilaus is really a 
deep-dyed rogue-” 

“Ah, never mind about Agesilaus! Perhaps he is getting 




108 BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 

them back from your widow at a quarter their value. Then 
wasn’t I right when I said that you were in possession of 
your bed only part of the time?” 

“Yes, you were right.” 

“Well, and I, too, was in possession of the bed in which 
I died part of the time. Proteus, the good guard of the 
prison, lent it to me for a period.” 

“Oh, if I had known what you were aiming at with your 
talk, I wouldn’t have answered your wily questions. By 
Hercules, such profanation is unheard of—he compares him¬ 
self with me! Why, I could put an end to you with two 
words, if it came to it-” 

“Say them, Elpidias, without fear. Words can scarcely 
be more destructive to me than the hemlock.” 

“Well, then, that is just what I wanted to say. You 
unfortunate man, you died by the sentence of the court 
and had to drink hemlock!” 

“But I have known that since the day of my death, even 
long before. And you, unfortunate Elpidias, tell me what 
caused your death?” 

“Oh, with me it was different, entirely different! You 
see I got the dropsy in my abdomen. An expensive physi¬ 
cian from Corinth was called who promised to cure me for 
two minas, and he was given half that amount in advance. 
I am afraid that Larissa in her lack of experience in such 
things gave him the other half, too-” 

“Then the physician did not keep his promise?” 

“That’s it.” 

“And you died from dropsy?” 

“Ah, Socrates, believe me, three times it wanted to van¬ 
quish me, and finally it quenched the flame of my life! ” 

“Then tell me—did death by dropsy give you great 
pleasure?” 

“Oh, wicked Socrates, don’t make sport of me. I told 
you it wanted to vanquish me three times. I bellowed 
like a steer under the knife of the slaughterer, and begged 
the Parcae to cut the thread of my life as quickly as pos¬ 
sible.” 

“That doesn’t surprise me. But from what do you con¬ 
clude that the dropsy was pleasanter to you than the hem- 




THE SHADES, A PHANTASY 109 

lock to me? The hemlock made an end of me in a mo¬ 
ment.” 

“I see, I fell into your snare again, you crafty sinner! 
I won’t enrage the gods still more by speaking with you, 
you destroyer of sacred customs.” 

Both were silent, and quiet reigned. But in a short 
while Elpidias was again the first to begin a conversation. 

“Why are you silent, good Socrates?” 

“My friend; didn’t you yourself ask for silence?” 

“I am not proud, and I can treat men who are worse 
than I am considerately. Don’t let us quarrel.” 

“I did not quarrel with you, friend Elpidias, and did 
not wish to say anything to insult you. I am merely ac¬ 
customed to get at the truth of things by comparisons. 
My situation is not clear to me. You consider your situa¬ 
tion better, and I should be glad to learn why. On the 
other hand, it would not hurt you to learn the truth, what¬ 
ever shape it may take.” 

“Well, no more of this.” 

“Tell me, are you afraid? I don’t think that the feel¬ 
ing I now have can be called fear.” 

“I am afraid, although I have less cause than you to be 
at odds with the gods. But don’t you think that the gods, 
in abandoning us to ourselves here in this chaos, have 
cheated us of our hopes?” 

“That depends upon what sort of hopes they were. 
What did you expect from the gods, Elpidias?” 

“Well, well, what did I expect from the gods! What 
curious questions you ask, Socrates! If a man throughout 
life brings offerings, and at his death passes away with a 
pious heart and with all that custom demands, the gods 
might at least send some one to meet him, at least one 
of the inferior gods, to show a man the way. . . . But 

that reminds me. Many a time when I begged for good 
luck in traffic in hides, I promised Hermes calves-” 

“And you didn’t have luck?” 

“Oh, yes, I had luck, good Socrates, but-” 

“I understand, you had no calf.” 

“Bah! Socrates, a rich tanner and not have calves?” 

“Now I understand. You had luck, had calves, but 




no BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 

you kept them for yourself, and Hermes received noth¬ 
ing.” 

“You’re a clever man. I’ve often said so. I kept only 
three of my ten oaths, and I didn’t deal differently with 
the other gods. If the same is the case with you, isn’t that 
the reason, possibly, why we are now abandoned by the 
gods? To be sure, I ordered Larissa to sacrifice a whole 
hecatomb after my death.” 

“But that is Larissa’s affair, whereas it was you, friend 
Elpidias, who made the promises.” 

“That’s true, that’s true. But you, good Socrates, could 
you, godless as you are, deal better with the gods than 
I who was a god-fearing tanner?” 

“My friend, I know not whether I dealt better or worse. 
At first I brought offerings without having made vows. 
Later I offered neither calves nor vows.” 

“What, not a single calf, you unfortunate man?” 

“Yes, friend, if Hermes had had to live by my gifts, 
I am afraid he would have grown very thin.” 

“I understand. You did not traffic in cattle, so you 
offered articles of some other trade—probably a mina or 
so of what the pupils paid you.” 

“You know, my friend, I didn’t ask pay of my pupils, 
and my trade scarcely sufficed to support me. If the gods 
reckoned on the sorry remnants of my meals they mis¬ 
calculated.” 

“Oh, blasphemer, in comparison with you I can be proud 
of my piety. Ye gods, look upon this man! I did deceive 
you at times, but now and then I shared with you the sur¬ 
plus of some fortunate deal. He who gives at all gives 
much in comparison with a blasphemer who gives nothing. 
Socrates, I think you had better go on alone! I fear that 
your company, godless one, damages me in the eyes of the 
gods.” 

“As you will, good Elpidias. I swear by the dog no one 
shall force his company on another. Unhand the fold of my 
mantle, and farewell. I will go on alone.” 

And Socrates walked forward with a sure tread, feeling 
the ground, however, at every step. 

But Elpidias behind him instantly cried out: 


Ill 


THE SHADES, A PHANTASY 

“Wait, wait, my good fellow-citizen, do not leave an 
Athenian alone in this horrible place! I was only making 
fun. Take what I said as a joke, and don’t go so quickly. 
I marvel how you can see a thing in this hellish darkness.” 

“Friend, I have accustomed my eyes to it.” 

“That’s good. Still I can’t approve of your not having 
brought sacrifices to the gods. No, I can’t, poor Socrates, 
I can’t. The honourable Sophroniscus certainly taught you 
better in your youth, and you yourself used to take part 
in the prayers. I saw you.” 

“Yes. But I am accustomed to examine all our mo¬ 
tives and to accept only those that after investigation prove 
to be reasonable. And so a day came on which I said to 
myself: ‘Socrates, here you are praying to the Olympians. 
Why are you praying to them?’ ” 

Elpidias laughed. 

“Really you philosophers sometimes don’t know how to 
answer the simplest questions. I’m a plain tanner who 
never in my life studied sophistry, yet I know why I must 
honour the Olympians.” 

“Tell me quickly, so that I, too, may know why.” 

“Why? Ha! Ha! It’s too simple, you wise Socrates.” 

“So much the better if it’s simple. But don’t keep your 
wisdom from me. Tell me—why must one honour the 
gods?” 

“Why. Because everybody does it.” 

“Friend, you know very well that not every one honours 
the gods. Wouldn’t it be more correct to say ‘many’?” 

“Very well, many.” 

“But tell me, don’t more men deal wickedly than right¬ 
eously?” 

“I think so. You find more wicked people than good 
people.” 

“Therefore, if you follow the majority, you ought to deal 
wickedly and not righteously?” 

“What are you saying?” 

“Vm not saying it, you are. But I think the reason that 
men reverence the Olympians is not because the majority 
worship them. We must find another, more rational ground. 
Perhaps you mean they deserve reverence?” 


112 BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 

“Yes, very right.” 

“Good. But then arises a new question: Why do they 
deserve reverence?” 

“Because of their greatness.” 

“Ah, that’s more like it. Perhaps I will soon be agree¬ 
ing with you. It only remains for you to tell me wherein 
their greatness consists. That’s a difficult question, isn’t it? 
Let us seek the answer together. Homer says that the 
impetuous Ares, when stretched flat on the ground by a 
stone thrown by Pallas Athene, covered with his body the 
space that can be travelled in seven mornings. You see 
what an enormous space.” 

“Is that wherein greatness consists?” 

“There you have me, my friend. That raises another 
question. Do you remember the athlete Theophantes? He 
towered over the people a whole head’s length, whereas 
Pericles was no larger than you. But whom do we call 
great, Pericles or Theophantes?” 

“I see that greatness does not consist in size of body. In 
that you’re right. I am glad we agree. Perhaps greatness 
consists in virtue?” 

“Certainly.” 

“I think so, too.” 

“Well, then, who must bow to whom? The small before 
the large, or those who are great in virtues before the 
wicked?” 

“The answer is clear.” 

“I think so, too. Now we will look further into this 
matter. Tell me truly, did you ever kill other people’s 
children with arrows?” 

“It goes without saying, never! Do you think so ill of 
me?” 

“Nor have you, I trust, ever seduced the wives of other 
men?” 

“I was an upright tanner and a good husband. Don’t 
forget that, Socrates, I beg of you!” 

“You never became a brute, nor by your lustfulness gave 
your faithful Larissa occasion to revenge herself on women 
whom you had ruined and on their innocent children?” 

“You anger me, really, Socrates.” 


THE SHADES, A PHANTASY 113 

“But perhaps you snatched your inheritance from your 
father and threw him into prison?” 

“Never! Why these insulting questions?” 

“Wait, my friend. Perhaps we will both reach a 
conclusion. Tell me, would you have considered a man 
great who had done all these things of which I have 
spoken?” 

“No, no, no! I should have called such a man a 
scoundrel, and lodged public complaint against him with 
the judges in the market-place.” 

“Well, Elpidias, why did you not complain in the market¬ 
place against Zeus and the Olympians? The son of Cronos 
carried on war with his own father, and was seized with 
brutal lust for the daughters of men, while Hera took venge¬ 
ance upon innocent virgins. Did not both of them convert 
the unhappy daughter of Inachos into a common cow? Did 
not Apollo kill all the children of Niobe with his arrows? 
Did not Callenius steal bulls? Well, then, Elpidias, if it is 
true that he who has less virtue must do honour to him who 
has more, then you should not build altars to the Olympians, 
but they to you.” 

“Blaspheme not, impious Socrates! Keep quiet! How 
dare you judge the acts of the gods?” 

“Friend, a higher power has judged them. Let us in¬ 
vestigate the question. What is the mark of divinity? I 
think you said, Greatness, which consists in virtue. Now 
is not this greatness the one divine spark in man? But if 
we test the greatness of the gods by our small human 
virtues, and it turns out that that which measures is 
greater than that which is measured, then it follows that 
the divine principle itself condemns the Olympians. But, 
then-” 

“What, then?” 

“Then, friend Elpidias, they are no gods, but deceptive 
phantoms, creations of a dream. Is it not so?” 

“Ah, that’s whither your talk leads, you bare-footed phi¬ 
losopher! Now I see what they said of you is true. You 
are like that fish that takes men captive with its look. So 
you took me captive in order to confound my believing 
soul and awaken doubt in it. It was already beginning to 



BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 


114 

waver in its reverence for Zeus. Speak alone. I won’t an¬ 
swer any more.” 

“Be not wrathful, Elpidias! I don’t wish to inflict any 
evil upon you. But if you are tired of following my argu¬ 
ments to their logical conclusions, permit me to relate to 
you an allegory of a Milesian youth. Allegories rest the 
mind, and the relaxation is not unprofitable.” 

“Speak, if your story is not too long and its purpose 
is good.” 

“Its purpose is truth, friend Elpidias, and I will be brief. 
Once, you know, in ancient times, Miletus was exposed to 
the attacks of the barbarians. Among the youth who were 
seized was a son of the wisest and best of all the citizens 
in the land. His precious child was overtaken by a severe 
illness and became unconscious. He was abandoned and 
allowed to lie like worthless booty. In the dead of night 
he came to his senses. High above him glimmered the 
stars. Round about stretched the desert; and in the dis¬ 
tance he heard the howl of beasts of prey. He was alone. 

“He was entirely alone, and, besides that, the gods had 
taken from him the recollection of his former life. In vain 
he racked his brain—it was as dark and empty as the in¬ 
hospitable desert in which he found himself. But some¬ 
where, far away, behind the misty and obscure figures con¬ 
jured up by his reason, loomed the thought of his lost 
home, and a vague realisation of the figure of the best 
of all men; and in his heart resounded the word ‘father.’ 
Doesn’t it seem to you that the fate of this youth resembles 
the fate of all humanity?” 

“How so?” 

“Do we not all awake to life on earth with a hazy recol¬ 
lection of another home? And does not the figure of the 
great unknown hover before our souls?” 

“Continue, Socrates, I am listening.” 

“The youth revived, arose, and walked cautiously, seek¬ 
ing to avoid all dangers. When after long wanderings his 
strength was nearly gone, he discerned a fire in the misty 
distance which illumined the darkness and banished the 
cold. A faint hope crept into his weary soul, and the recol¬ 
lections of his father’s house again awoke within him. The 


THE SHADES, A PHANTASY 115 

youth walked toward the light, and cried: ‘It is you, my 
father, it is you!’ ” 

“And was it his father’s house?” 

“No, it was merely a night lodging of wild nomads. So 
for many years he led the miserable life of a captive slave, 
and only in his dreams saw the distant home and rested on 
his father’s bosom. Sometimes with weak hand he endeav¬ 
oured to lure from dead clay or wood or stone the face and 
form that ever hovered before him. There even came mo¬ 
ments when he grew weary and embraced his own handi¬ 
work and prayed to it and wet it with his tears. But the 
stone remained cold stone. And as he waxed in years the 
youth destroyed his creations, which already seemed to him 
a vile defamation of his ever-present dreams. At last fate 
brought him to a good barbarian, who asked him for the 
cause of his constant mourning. When the youth confided 
to him the hopes and longings of his soul, the barbarian, 
a wise man, said: 

“ ‘The world would be better did such a man and such 
a country exist as that of which you speak. But by what 
mark would you recognise your father?’ 

“ ‘In my country,’ answered the youth, ‘they reverenced 
wisdom and virtue and looked up to my father as to the 
master.’ 

“ ‘Well and good,’ answered the barbarian. ‘I must as¬ 
sume that a kernel of your father’s teaching resides in you. 
Therefore take up the wanderer’s staff, and proceed on your 
way. Seek perfect wisdom and truth, and when you have 
found them, cast aside your staff—there will be your home 
and your father.’ 

“And the youth went on his way at break of day-” 

“Did he find the one whom he sought?” 

“He is still seeking. Many countries, cities and men has 
he seen. He has come to know all the ways by land; he 
has traversed the stormy seas; he has searched the courses 
of the stars in heaven by which a pilgrim can direct his 
course in the limitless deserts. And each time that on 
his wearisome way an inviting fire lighted up the darkness 
before his eyes, his heart beat faster and hope crept into 
his soul. ‘That is my father’s hospitable house,’ he thought. 



n6 BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 

“And when a hospitable host would greet the tired trav¬ 
eller and offer him the peace and blessing of his hearth, the 
youth would fall at his feet and say with emotion: T thank 
you, my father! Do you not recognise your son?’ 

“And many were prepared to take him as their son, for 
at that time children were frequently kidnapped. But after 
the first glow of enthusiasm, the youth would detect traces 
of imperfection, sometimes even of wickedness. Then he 
would begin to investigate and to test his host with ques¬ 
tions concerning justice and injustice. And soon he would 
be driven forth again upon the cold wearisome way. More 
than once he said to himself: T will remain at this last 
hearth, I will preserve my last belief. It shall be the home 
of my father.’ ” 

“Do you know, Socrates, perhaps that would have been 
the most sensible thing to do.” 

“So he thought sometimes. But the habit of investi¬ 
gating, the confused dream of a father, gave him no peace. 
Again and again he shook the dust from his feet; again 
and again he grasped his staff. Not a few stormy nights 
found him shelterless. Doesn’t it seem to you that the 
fate of this youth resembles the fate of mankind?” 

“Why?” 

“Does not the race of man make trial of its childish 
belief and doubt it while seeking the unknown? Doesn’t 
it fashion the form of its father in wood, stone, custom, 
and tradition? And then man finds the form imperfect, 
destroys it, and again goes on his wanderings in the desert 
of doubt. Always for the purpose of seeking something 
better-” 

“Oh, you cunning sage, now I understand the purpose 
of your allegory! And I will tell you to your face that if 
only a ray of light were to penetrate this gloom, I would 
not put the Lord on trial with unnecessary questions-” 

“Friend, the light is already shining,” answered Socrates. 

V 

It seemed as if the words of the philosopher had taken 
effect. High up in the distance a beam of light penetrated 




THE SHADES, A PHANTASY 


ii 7 

a vapoury envelop and disappeared in the mountains. It was 
followed by a second and a third. There beyond the 
darkness luminous genii seemed to be hovering, and a great 
mystery seemed about to be revealed, as if the breath of life 
were blowing, as if some great ceremony were in process. 
But it was still very remote. The shades descended thicker 
and thicker; foggy clouds rolled into masses, separated, and 
chased one another endlessly, ceaselessly. 

A blue light from a distant peak fell upon a deep ravine; 
the clouds rose and covered the heavens to the zenith. 

The rays disappeared and withdrew to a greater and 
greater distance, as if fleeing from this vale of shades and 
horrors. Socrates stood and looked after them sadly. Elpi- 
dias peered up at the peak full of dread. 

“Look, Socrates! What do you see there on the moun¬ 
tain?” 

“Friend,” answered the philosopher, “let us investigate 
our situation. Since we are in motion, we must arrive 
somewhere, and since earthly existence must have a limit, 
I believe that this limit is to be found at the parting of 
two beginnings. In the struggle of light with darkness we 
attain the crown of our endeavours. Since the ability to 
think has not been taken from us, I believe that it is the 
will of the divine being who called our power of thinking 
into existence that we should investigate the goal of our 
endeavours ourselves. Therefore, Elpidias, let us in dig¬ 
nified manner go to meet the dawn that lies beyond those 
clouds.” 

“Oh, my friend! If that is the dawn, I would rather 
the long cheerless night had endured forever, for it was 
quiet and peaceful. Don’t you think our time passed tol¬ 
erably well in instructive converse? And now my soul 
trembles before the tempest drawing nigh. Say what you 
will, but there before us are no ordinary shades of the 
dead night.” 

Zeus hurled a bolt into the bottomless gulf. 

Ctesippus looked up to the peak, and his soul was frozen 
with horror. Huge sombre figures of the Olympian gods 
crowded on the mountain in a circle. A last ray shot 
through the region of clouds and mists, and died away 


n8 BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 

like a faint memory. A storm was approaching now, and 
the powers of night were once more in the ascendant. Dark 
figures covered the heavens. In the centre Ctesippus could 
discern the all-powerful son of Cronos surrounded by a 
halo. The sombre figures of the older gods encircled him 
in wrathful excitement. Like flocks of birds winging their 
way in the twilight, like eddies of dust driven by a hurri¬ 
cane, like autumn leaves lashed by Boreas, numerous minor 
gods hovered in long clouds and occupied the spaces. 

When the clouds gradually lifted from the peak and sent 
down dismal horror to embrace the earth, Ctesippus fell 
upon his knees. Later, he admitted that in this dreadful 
moment he forgot all his master’s deductions and con¬ 
clusions. His courage failed him, and terror took posses¬ 
sion of his soul. 

He merely listened. 

Two voices resounded there where before had been 
silence, the one the mighty and threatening voice of the 
Godhead, the other the weak voice of a mortal which the 
wind carried from the mountain slope to the spot where 
Ctesippus had left Socrates. 

“Are you,” thus spake the voice from the clouds, “are 
you the blasphemous Socrates who strives with the gods of 
heaven and earth? Once there were none so joyous, so im¬ 
mortal, as we. Now, for long we have passed our days in 
darkness because of the unbelief and doubt that have come 
upon earth. Never has the mist closed in on us so heavily 
as since the time your voice resounded in Athens, the city 
we once so dearly loved. Why did you not follow the com¬ 
mands of your father, Sophroniscus? The good man per¬ 
mitted himself a few little sins, especially in his youth, 
yet by way of recompense, we frequently enjoyed the smell 
of his offerings-” 

“Stay, son of Cronos, and solve my doubts! Do I under¬ 
stand that you prefer cowardly hypocrisy to searchings for 
the truth?” 

At this question the crags trembled with the shock of a 
thundering peal. The first breath of the tempest scattered 
in the distant gorges. But the mountains still trembled, for 
he who was enthroned upon them still trembled. And in 



THE SHADES, A PHANTASY 119 

the anxious quiet of the night only distant sighs could be 
heard. 

In the very bowels of the earth the chained Titans seemed 
to be groaning under the blow of the son of Cronos. 

“Where are you now, you impious questioner?” suddenly 
came the mocking voice of the Olympian. 

“I am here, son of Cronos, on the same spot. Nothing 
but your answer can move me from it. I am waiting.” 

Thunder bellowed in the clouds like a wild animal amazed 
at the daring of a Lybian tamer’s fearless approach. At the 
end of a few moments the voice again rolled over the 
spaces: 

“Son of Sophroniscus! Is it not enough that you bred so 
much scepticism on earth that the clouds of your doubt 
reached even to Olympus? Indeed, many a time when you 
were carrying on your discourse in the market-places or in 
the academies or on the promenades, it seemed to me as if 
you had already destroyed all the altars on earth, and the 
dust were rising from them up to us here on the mountain. 
Even that is not enough! Here before my very face you 
will not recognise the power of the immortals-” 

“Zeus, thou art wrathful. Tell me, who gave me the 
‘Daemon’ which spoke to my soul throughout my life and 
forced me to seek the truth without resting?” 

Mysterious silence reigned in the clouds. 

“Was it not you? You are silent? Then I will investi¬ 
gate the matter. Either this divine beginning emanates 
from you or from some one else. If from you, I bring it to 
you as an offering. I offer you the ripe fruit of my life, 
the flame of the spark of your own kindling! See, son of 
Cronos, I preserved my gift; in my deepest heart grew the 
seed that you sowed. It is the very fire of my soul. It 
burned in those crises when with my own hand I tore the 
thread of life. Why will you not accept it? Would you 
have me regard you as a poor master whose age prevents 
him from seeing that his own pupil obediently follows out 
his commands? Who are you that would command me to 
stifle the flame that has illuminated my whole life, ever 
since it was penetrated by the first ray of sacred thought? 
The sun says not to the stars: ‘Be extinguished that I may 



120 


BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 


rise.’ The sun rises and the weak glimmer of the stars is 
quenched by its far, far stronger light. The day says not 
to the torch: ‘Be extinguished; you interfere with me.’ 
The day breaks, and the torch smokes, but no longer shines. 
The divinity that I am questing is not you who are afraid 
of doubt. That divinity is like the day, like the sun, and 
shines without extinguishing other lights. The god I seek 
is the god who would say to me: ‘Wanderer, give me your 
torch, you no longer need it, for I am the source of all 
light. Searcher for truth, set upon my altar the little gift 
of your doubt, because in me is its solution.’ If you are 
that god, harken to my questions. No one kills his own 
child, and my doubts are a branch of the eternal spirit 
whose name is truth.” 

Round about, the fires of heaven tore the dark clouds, 
and out of the howling storm again resounded the powerful 
voice: 

“Whither did your doubts tend, you arrogant sage, who 
renounce humility, the most beautiful adornment of earthly 
virtues? You abandoned the friendly shelter of credulous 
simplicity to wander in the desert of doubt. You have seen 
this dead space from which the living gods have departed. 
Will you traverse it, you insignificant worm, who crawl 
in the dust of your pitiful profanation of the gods? Will 
you vivify the world? Will you conceive the unknown 
divinity to whom you do not dare to pray? You miserable 
digger of dung, soiled by the smut of ruined altars, are 
you perchance the architect who shall build the new temple? 
Upon what do you base your hopes, you who disavow the 
old gods and have no new gods to take their place? The 
eternal night of doubts unsolved, the dead desert, deprived 
of the living spirit —this is your world, you pitiful worm, 
who gnawed at the living belief which was a refuge for 
simple hearts, who converted the world into a dead chaos. 
Now, then, where are you, you insignificant, blasphemous 
sage?” 

Nothing was heard but the mighty storm roaring through 
the spaces. Then the thunder died away, the wind folded 
its pinions, and torrents of rain streamed through the dark¬ 
ness, like incessant floods of tears which threatened to 


THE SHADES, A PHANTASY 121 

devour the earth and drown it in a deluge of unquenchable 
grief. 

It seemed to Ctesippus that the master was overcome, 
and that the fearless, restless, questioning voice had been 
silenced forever. But a few moments later it issued again 
from the same spot. 

“Your words, son of Cronos, hit the mark better than 
your thunderbolts. The thoughts you have cast into my 
terrified soul have haunted me often, and it has sometimes 
seemed as if my heart would break under the burden of 
their unendurable anguish. Yes, I abandoned the friendly 
shelter of credulous simplicity. Yes, I have seen the spaces 
from which the living gods have departed enveloped in 
the night of eternal doubt. But I walked without fear, for 
my ‘Daemon’ lighted the way, the divine beginning of all 
life. Let us investigate the question. Are not offerings 
of incense burnt on your altars in the name of Him who 
gives life? You are stealing what belongs to another! Not 
you, but that other, is served by credulous simplicity. Yes, 
you are right, I am no architect. I am not the builder of 
a new temple. Not to me was it given to raise from the 
earth to the heavens the glorious structure of the coming 
faith. I am one who digs dung, soiled by the smut of 
destruction. But my conscience tells me, son of Cronos, 
that the work of one who digs dung is also necessary for 
the future temple. When the time comes for the proud 
and stately edifice to stand on the purified place, and for 
the living divinity of the new belief to erect his throne 
upon it, I, the modest digger of dung, will go to him and 
say: ‘Here am I who restlessly crawled in the dust of 
disavowal. When surrounded by fog and soot, I had no 
time to raise my eyes from the ground; my head had only 
a vague conception of the future building. Will you reject 
me, you just one, Just, and True, and Great?” 

Silence and astonishment reigned in the spaces. Then 
Socrates raised his voice, and continued: 

“The sunbeam falls upon the filthy puddle, and light 
vapour, leaving heavy mud behind, rises to the sun, melts, 
and dissolves in the ether. With your sunbeam you touched 
my dust-laden soul and it aspired to you, Unknown One, 


122 


BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 


whose name is mystery! I sought for you, because you are 
Truth; I strove to attain to you, because you are Justice; 
I loved you, because you are Love; I died for you, because 
you are the Source of Life. Will you reject me, O 
Unknown? My torturing doubts, my passionate search for 
truth, my difficult life, my voluntary death—accept them as 
a bloodless offering, as a prayer, as a sigh! Absorb them 
as the immeasurable ether absorbs the evaporating mists! 
Take them, you whose name I do not know, let not the 
ghosts of the night I have traversed bar the way to you, to 
eternal light! Give way, you shades who dim the light 
of the dawn! I tell you, gods of my people, you are un¬ 
just, and where there is no justice there can be no truth, 
but only phantoms, creations of a dream. To this con¬ 
clusion have I come, I, Socrates, who sought to fathom all 
things. Rise, dead mists, I go my way to Him whom I 
have sought all my life long!” 

The thunder burst again—a short, abrupt peal, as if the 
egis had fallen from the weakened hand of the thunderer. 
Storm-voices trembled from the mountains, sounding dully 
in the gorges, and died away in the clefts. In their place 
resounded other, marvellous tones. 

When Ctesippus looked up in astonishment, a spectacle 
presented itself such as no mortal eyes had ever seen. 

The night vanished. The clouds lifted, and godly figures 
floated in the azure like golden ornaments on the hem of 
a festive robe. Heroic forms glimmered over the remote 
crags and ravines, and Elpidias, whose little figure was seen 
standing at the edge of a cleft in the rocks, stretched his 
hands toward them, as if beseeching the vanishing gods for 
a solution of his fate. 

A mountain-peak now stood out clearly above the 
mysterious mist, gleaming like a torch over dark blue val¬ 
leys. The son of'Cronos, the thunderer, was no longer 
enthroned upon it, and the other Olympians too were gone. 

Socrates stood alone in the light of the sun under the 
high heavens. 

Ctesippus was distinctly conscious of the pulse-beat of a 
mysterious life quivering throughout nature, stirring even 
the tiniest blade of grass. 


THE SHADES, A PHANTASY 


123 


A breath seemed to be stirring the balmy air, a voice 
to be sounding in wonderful harmony, an invisible tread to 
be heard—the tread of the radiant Dawn! 

And on the illumined peak a man still stood, stretching 
out his arms in mute ecstasy, moved by a mighty impulse. 

A moment, and all disappeared, and the light of an 
ordinary day shone upon the awakened soul of Ctesippus. 
It was like dismal twilight after the revelation of nature 
that had blown upon him the breath of an unknown life. 

In deep silence the pupils of the philosopher listened to 
the marvellous recital of Ctesippus. Plato broke the silence. 

“Let us investigate the dream and its significance,” he 
said. 

“Let us investigate it,” responded the others. 


THE SIGNAL 

By Vsevolod M. Garshin. 

S EMYON IVANOV was a track-walker. His hut was ten 
versts away from a railroad station in one direction and 
twelve versts away in the other. About four versts away 
there was a cotton mill that had opened the year before, 
and its tall chimney rose up darkly from behind the furest. 
The only dwellings around were the distant huts of the 
other track-walkers. 

Semyon Ivanov’s health had been completely shattered. 
Nine years before he had served right through the war as 
servant to an officer. The sun had roasted him, the cold 
frozen him, and hunger famished him on the forced marches 
of forty and fifty versts a day in the heat and the cold and 
the rain and the shine. The bullets had whizzed about him, 
but, thank God! none had struck him. 

Semyon’s regiment had once been on the firing line. For 
a whole week there had been skirmishing with the Turks, 
only a deep ravine separating the two hostile armies; and 
from morn till eve there had been a steady cross-fire. 
Thrice daily Semyon carried a steaming samovar and his 
officer’s meals from the camp kitchen to the ravine. The 
bullets hummed about him and rattled viciously against the 
rocks. Semyon was terrified and cried sometimes, but still 
he kept right on. The officers were pleased with him, be¬ 
cause he always had hot tea ready for them. 

He returned from the campaign with limbs unbroken but 
crippled with rheumatism. He had experienced no little 
sorrow since then. He arrived home to find that his father, 
an old man, and his little four-year-old son had died. 
Semyon remained alone with his wife. They could not do 
much. It was difficult to plough with rheumatic arms and 
legs. They could no longer stay in their village, so they 
started off to seek their fortune in new places. They stayed 

124 


THE SIGNAL 


125 


for a short time on the line, in Kherson and Donshchina, 
but nowhere found luck. Then the wife went out to service, 
and Semyon continued to travel about. Once he happened 
to ride on an engine, and at one of the stations the face 
of the station-master seemed familiar to him. Semyon 
looked at the station-master and the station-master looked 
at Semyon, and they recognised each other. He had been 
an officer in Semyon’s regiment. 

“You are Ivanov?” he said. 

“Yes, your Excellency.” 

“How do you come to be here?” 

Semyon told him all. 

“Where are you off to?” 

“I cannot tell you, sir.” 

“Idiot! What do you mean by ‘cannot tell you?’ ” 

“I mean what I say, your Excellency. There is nowhere 
for me to go to. I must hunt for work, sir.” 

The station-master looked at him, thought a bit, and 
said: “See here, friend, stay here a while at the station. 
You are married, I think. Where is your wife?” 

“Yes, your Excellency, I am married. My wife is at 
Kursk, in service with a merchant.” 

“Well, write to your wife to come here: I will give you 
a free pass for her. There is a position as track-walker 
open. I will speak to the Chief on your behalf.” 

“I shall be very grateful to you, your Excellency,” replied 
Semyon. 

He stayed at the station, helped in the kitchen, cut fire¬ 
wood, kept the yard clean, and swept the platform. In a 
fortnight’s time his wife arrived, and Semyon went on a 
hand-trolley to his hut. The hut was a new one and warm, 
with as much wood as he wanted. There was a little vege¬ 
table garden, the legacy of former track-walkers, and there 
was about half a dessiatin of ploughed land on either side 
of the railway embankment. Semyon was rejoiced. He 
began to think of doing some farming, of purchasing a 
cow and a horse. 

He was given all necessary stores—a green flag, a red flag, 
lanterns, a horn, hammer, screw-wrench for the nuts, a 
crow-bar, spade, broom, bolts, and nails; they gave him 


126 


BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 


two books of regulations and a time-table of the trains. 
At first Semyon could not sleep at night, and learnt the 
whole time-table by heart. Two hours before ja train was 
due he would go over his section, sit on the bench at his 
hut, and look and listen whether the rails were trembling 
or the rumble of the train could be heard. He even learned 
the regulations by heart, although he could only read by 
spelling out each word. 

It was summer; the work was not heavy; there was no 
snow to clear away, and the trains on that line were infre¬ 
quent. Semyon used to go over His verst twice a day, ex¬ 
amine and screw up nuts here and there, keep the bed level, 
look at the water-pipes, and then go home to his own affairs. 
There was only one drawback—he always had to get the 
inspector’s permission for the least little thing he wanted 
to do. Semyon and his wife were even beginning to be 
bored. 

Two months passed, and Semyon commenced to make the 
acquaintance of his neighbours, the track-walkers on 
either side of him. One was a very old man, whom the 
authorities were always meaning to relieve. He scarcely 
moved out of his hut. His wife used to do all his work. The 
other track-walker, nearer the station, was a young man, 
thin, but muscular. He and Semyon met for the first time 
on the line midway between the huts.' Semyon took off his 
hat and bowed. “Good health to you, neighbour,” he said. 

The neighbour glanced askance at him. “How do you 
do?” he replied; then turned around and made off. 

Later the wives met. Semyon’s wife passed the time 
of day with her neighbour, but neither did she say much. 

On one occasion Semyon said to her: “Young woman, 
your husband is not very talkative.” 

The woman said nothing at first, then replied: “But 
what is there for him to talk about? Every one has his 
own business. Go your way, and God be with you.” 

However, after another month or so they became ac¬ 
quainted. Semyon would go with Vasily along the line, 
sit on the edge of a pipe, smoke, and talk of life. Vasily, 
for the most part, kept silent, but Semyon talked of his 
village, and of the campaign through which he had passed. 


THE SIGNAL 


127 


“I have had no little sorrow in my day,” he would say; 
“and goodness knows I have not lived long. God has not 
given me happiness, but what He may give, so will it be. 
That’s so, friend Vasily Stepanych.” 

Vasily Stepanych knocked the ashes out of his pipe 
against a rail, stood up, and said: “It is not luck which 
follows us in life, but human beings. There is no crueller 
beast on this earth than man. Wolf does not eat wolf, but 
man will readily devour man.” 

“Come, friend, don’t say that; a wolf eats wolf.” 

“The words came into my mind and I said it. All the 
same, there is nothing crueller than man. If it were not for 
his wickedness and greed, it would be possible to live. 
Everybody tries to sting you to the quick, to bite and eat 
you up.” 

Semyon pondered a bit. “I don’t know, brother,” he 
said; “perhaps it is as you say, and perhaps it is God’s 
will.” 

“And perhaps,” said Vasily, “it is waste of time for me 
to talk to you. To put everything unpleasant on God, and 
sit and suffer, means, brother, being not a man but an 
animal. That’s what I have to say.” And he turned and 
went off without saying good-bye. 

Semyon also got up. “Neighbour,” he called, “why do 
you lose your temper?” But his neighbour did not look 
round, and kept on his way. 

Semyon gazed after him until he was lost to sight in the 
cutting at the turn. He went home and said to his wife: 
“Arina, our neighbour is a wicked person, not a man.” 

However, they did not quarrel. »They met again and dis¬ 
cussed the same topics. 

“Ah, friend, if it were not for men we should not be 
poking in these huts,” said Vasily, on one occasion. 

“And what if we are poking in these huts? It’s not so 
bad. You can live in them.” 

“Live in them, indeed! Bah, you! . . . You 

have lived long and learned little, looked at much and seen 
little. What sort of life is there for a poor man in a hut 
here or there? The cannibals are devouring you. They 
are sucking up all your life-blood, and when you become 


128 


BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 


old, they will throw you out just as they do husks to feed 
the pigs on. What pay do you get?” 

“Not much, Vasily Stepanych—twelve rubles.” 

“And I, thirteen and a half rubles. Why? By the regu¬ 
lations the company should give us fifteen rubles a month 
with firing and lighting. Who decides that you should have 
twelve rubles, or I thirteen and a half? Ask yourself! And 
you say a man can live on that? You understand it is not 
a question of one and a half rubles or three rubles—even 
if they paid us each the whole fifteen rubles. I was at 
the station last month. The director passed through. I saw 
him. I had that honour. He had a separate coach. He 
came out and stood on the platform. ... I shall not 
stay here long; I shall go somewhere, anywhere, follow my 
nose.” 

“But where will you go, Stepanych? Leave well enough 
alone. Here you have a house, warmth, a little piece of 
land. Your wife is a worker.” 

“Land! You should look at my piece of land. Not 
a twig on it—nothing. I planted some cabbages in the 
spring, just when the inspector came along. He said: ‘What 
is this? Why have you not reported this? Why have you 
done this without permission? Dig them up, roots and 
all.’ He was drunk. Another time he would not have 
said a word, but this time it struck him. Three rubles 
fine! ...” 

Vasily kept silent for a while, pulling at his pipe, then 
added quietly: “A little more and I should have done 
for him.” 

“You are hot-tempered.” 

“No, I am not hot-tempered, but I tell the truth and 
think. Yes, he will still get a bloody nose from me. I 
will complain to the Chief. We will see then! ” And Vasily 
did complain to the Chief. 

Once the Chief came to inspect the line. Three days 
later important personages were coming from St. Peters¬ 
burg and would pass over the line. They were conducting 
an inquiry, so that previous to their journey it was neces¬ 
sary to put everything in order. Ballast was laid down, the 
bed was levelled, the sleepers carefully examined, spikes 


THE SIGNAL 


129 


driven in a bit, nuts screwed up, posts painted, and orders 
given for yellow sand to be sprinkled at the level crossings. 
The woman at the neighbouring hut turned her old man out 
to weed. Semyon worked for a whole week. He put every¬ 
thing in order, mended his kaftan, cleaned and polished his 
brass plate until it fairly shone. Vasily also worked hard. 
The Chief arrived on a trolley, four men working the han¬ 
dles and the levers making the six wheels hum. The trolley 
travelled at twenty versts an hour, but the wheels squeaked. 
It reached Semyon’s hut, and he ran out and reported in 
soldierly fashion. All appeared to be in repair. 

“Have you been here long?” inquired the Chief. 

“Since the second of May, your Excellency.” 

“All right. Thank you. And who is at hut No. 164?” 

The traffic inspector (he was travelling with the Chief 
on the trolley) replied: “Vasily Spiridov.” 

“Spiridov, Spiridov. . . . Ah! is he the man against 

whom you made a note last year?” 

“He is.” 

“Well, we will see Vasily Spiridov. Goon!” The work¬ 
men laid to the handles, and the trolley got under way. 
Semyon watched it, and thought, “There will be trouble 
between them and my neighbour.” 

About two hours later he started on his round. He saw 
some one coming along the line from the cutting. Some¬ 
thing white showed on his head. Semyon began to look 
more attentively. It was Vasily. He had a stick in his 
hand, a small bundle on his shoulder, and his cheek was 
bound up in a handkerchief. 

“Where are you off to?” cried Semyon. 

Vasily came quite close. He was very pale, white as 
chalk, and his eyes had a wild look. Almost choking, he 
muttered: “To town—to Moscow—to the head office.” 

“Head office? Ah, you are going to complain, I suppose. 
Give it up! Vasily Stepanych, forget it.” 

“No, mate, I will not forget. It is too late. See! He 
struck me in the face, drew blood. So long as I live I 
will not forget. I will not leave it like this!” 

Semyon took his hand. “Give it up, Stepanych. I am 
giving you good advice. You will not better things. . . .” 


130 


BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 


“Better things! I know myself I shan’t better things. 
You were right about Fate. It would be better for me 
not to do it, but one must stand up for the right.” 

“But tell me, how did it happen?” 

“How? He examined everything, got down from the 
trolley, looked into the hut. I knew beforehand that he 
would be strict, and so I had put everything into proper 
order. He was just going when I made my complaint. He 
immediately cried out: ‘Here is a Government inquiry com¬ 
ing, and you make a complaint about a vegetable garden. 
Here are privy councillors coming, and you annoy me 
with cabbages!’ I lost - patience and said something—not 
very much, but it offended him, and he struck me in the 
face. I stood still; I did nothing, just as if what he did 
was perfectly all right. They went off; I came to myself, 
washed my face, and left.” 

“And what about the hut?” 

“My wife is staying there. She will look after things. 
Never mind about their roads.” 

Vasily got up and collected himself. “Good-bye, Ivanov. 
I do not know whether I shall get any one at the office 
to listen to me.” 

“Surely you are not going to walk?” 

“At the station I will try to get on a freight train, and 
to-morrow I shall be in Moscow.” 

The neighbours bade each other farewell. Vasily was 
absent for some time. His wife worked for him night and 
day. She never slept, and wore herself out waiting for 
her husband. On the third day the commission arrived. 
An engine, luggage-van, and two first-class saloons; but 
Vasily was still away. Semyon saw his wife on the fourth 
day. Her face was swollen from crying and her eyes were 
red. 

“Has your husband returned?” he asked. But the woman 
only made a gesture with her hands, and without saying a 
word went her way. 

Semyon had learnt when still a lad to make flutes out 
of a kind of reed. He used to burn out the heart of the 
stalk, make holes where necessary, drill them, fix a mouth- 


THE SIGNAL 


131 

piece at one end, and tune them so well that it was possible 
to play almost any air on them. He made a number of 
them in his spare time, and sent them by his friends 
amongst the freight brakemen to the bazaar in the town. 
He got two kopeks apiece for them. On the day following 
the visit of the commission he left his wife at home to 
meet the six o’clock train, and started off to the forest to 
cut some sticks. He went to the end of his section—at this 
point the line made a sharp turn—descended the embank¬ 
ment, and struck into the wood at the foot of the mountain. 
About half a verst away there was a big marsh, around which 
splendid reeds for his flutes grew. He cut a whole bundle 
of stalks and started back home. The sun was already 
dropping low, and in the dead stillness only the twittering 
of the birds was audible, and the crackle of the dead wood 
under his feet. As he walked along rapidly, he fancied he 
heard the clang of iron striking iron, and he redoubled 
his pace. There was no repair going on in his section. 
What did it mean? He emerged from the woods, the rail¬ 
way embankment stood high before him; on the top a man 
was squatting on the bed of the line busily engaged in 
something. Semyon commenced quietly to crawl up to¬ 
wards him. He thought it was some one after the nuts 
which secure the rails. He watched, and the man got 
up, holding a crow-bar in his hand. He had loosened a 
rail, so that it would move to one side. A mist swam 
before Semyon’s eyes; he wanted to cry out, but could not. 
It was Vasily! Semyon scrambled up the bank, as Vasily 
with crow-bar and wrench slid headlong down the other 
side. 

“Vasily Stepanych! My dear friend, come back! Give 
me the crow-bar. We will put the rail back; no one will 
know. Come back! Save your soul from sin!” 

Vasily did not look back, but disappeared into the 
woods. 

Semyon stood before the rail which had been torn up. 
He threw down his bundle of sticks. A train was due; 
not a freight, but a passenger-train. And he had nothing 
with which to stop it, no flag. He could not replace the 
rail and could not drive in the spikes with his bare hands. 


132 


BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 


It was necessary to run, absolutely necessary to run to 
the hut for some tools. “God help me!” he murmured. 

Semyon started running towards his hut. He was out 
of breath, but still ran, falling every now and then. He 
had cleared the forest; he was only a few hundred feet 
from his hut, not more, when he heard the distant 
hooter of the factory sound—six o’clock! In two min¬ 
utes’ time No. 7 train was due. “Oh, Lord! Have 
pity on innocent souls!” In his mind Semyon saw the 
engine strike against the loosened rail with its left wheel, 
shiver, careen, tear up and splinter the sleepers—and just 
there, there was a curve and the embankment seventy feet 
high, down which the engine would topple—and the third- 
class carriages would be packed . . . little children. 

. All sitting in the train now, never dreaming of 
danger. “Oh, Lord! Tell me what to do! . . . No, 

it is impossible to run to the hut and get back in time.” 

Semyon did not run on to the hut, but turned back and 
ran faster than before. He was running almost mechani¬ 
cally, blindly; he did not know himself what was to happen. 
He ran as far as the rail which had been pulled up; his 
sticks were lying in a heap. He bent down, seized one 
without knowing why, and ran on farther. It seemed to 
him the train was already coming. He heard the distant 
whistle; he heard the quiet, even tremor of the rails; but 
his strength was exhausted, he could run no farther, and 
came to a halt about six hundred feet from the awful 
spot. Then an idea came into his head, literally like a ray 
of light. Pulling off his cap, he took out of it a cotton 
scarf, drew his knife out of the upper part of his boot, and 
crossed himself, muttering, “God bless me!” 

He buried the knife in his left arm above the elbow; the 
blood spurted out, flowing in a hot stream. In this he 
soaked his scarf, smoothed it out, tied it to the stick and 
hung out his red flag. 

He stood waving his flag. The train was already in sight. 
The driver would not see him—would come close up, 
and a heavy train cannot be pulled up in six hundred 
feet. 

And the blood kept on flowing. Semyon pressed the 


THE SIGNAL 


33 


sides of the wound together so as to close it, but the blood 
did not diminish. Evidently he had cut his arm very deep. 
His head commenced to swim, black spots began to dance 
before his eyes, and then it became dark. There was a 
ringing in his ears. He could not see the train or hear 
the noise. Only one thought possessed him. “I shall not 
be able to keep standing up. I shall fall and drop the flag; 
the train will pass over me. Help me, oh Lord! ” 

All turned black before him, his mind became a blank, 
and he dropped the flag; but the blood-stained banner did 
not fall to the ground. A hand seized it and held it high 
to meet the approaching train. The engineer saw it, shut 
the regulator, and reversed steam. The train came to a 
standstill. 

People jumped out of the carriages and collected in a 
crowd. They saw a man lying senseless on the footway, 
drenched in blood, and another man standing beside him 
with a blood-stained rag on a stick. 

Vasily looked around at all. Then, lowering his head, 
he said: “Bind me. I tore up a rail!” 


THE DARLING 

By Anton P. Chekhov 

O LENKA, the daughter of the retired collegiate assessor 
Plemyanikov, was sitting on the back-door steps of her 
house doing nothing. It was hot, the flies were nagging and 
teasing, and it was pleasant to think that it would soon be 
evening. Dark rain clouds were gathering from tne east, 
wafting a breath of moisture every now and then. 

Kukin, who roomed in the wing of the same house, was 
standing in the yard looking up at the sky. He was the 
manager of the Tivoli, an open-air theatre. 

“Again,” he said despairingly. “Rain again. Rain, rain, 
rain! Every day rain! As though to spite me. I might as 
well stick my head into a noose and be done with it. It’s 
ruining me. Heavy losses every day!” He wrung his 
hands, and continued, addressing Olenka: “What a life, 
Olga Semyonovna! It’s enough to make a man weep. He 
works, he does his best, his very best, he tortures himself, 
he passes sleepless nights, he thinks and thinks and thinks 
how to do everything just right. And what’s the result? 
He gives the public the best operetta, the very best pan¬ 
tomime, excellent artists. But do they want it? Have they 
the least appreciation of it? The public is rude. The 
public is a great boor. The public wants a circus, a lot of 
nonsense, a lot of stuff. And there’s the weather. Look! 
Rain almost every evening. It began to rain on the tenth 
of May, and it’s kept it up through the whole of June. It’s 
simply awful. I can’t get any audiences, and don’t I have 
to pay rent? Don’t I have to pay the actors?” 

The next day towards evening the clouds gathered again, 
and Kukin said with an hysterical laugh: 

“Oh, I don’t care. Let it do its worst. Let it drown 
the whole theatre, and me, too. All right, no luck for 
me in this world or the next. Let the actors bring suit 

134 


THE DARLING 


135 


against me and drag me to court. What’s the court? Why 
not Siberia at hard labour, or even the scaffold? Ha. ha, 
ha!” 

It was the same on the third day. 

Olenka listened to Kukin seriously, in silence. Some¬ 
times tears would rise to her eyes. At last Kukin’s mis¬ 
fortune touched her. She fell in love with him. He was 
short, gaunt, with a yellow face, and curly hair combed back 
from his forehead, and a thin tenor voice. His features 
puckered all up when he spoke. Despair was ever inscribed 
on his face. And yet he awakened in Olenka a sincere, 
deep feeling. 

She was always loving somebody. She couldn’t get on 
without loving somebody. She had loved her sick father, 
who sat the whole time in his armchair in a darkened room, 
breathing heavily. She had loved her aunt, who came from 
Brianska once or twice a year to visit them. And before 
that, when a pupil at the progymnasium, she had loved her 
French teacher. She was a quiet, kind-hearted, com¬ 
passionate girl, with a soft gentle way about her. And she 
made a very healthy, wholesome impression. Looking at 
her full, rosy cheeks, at her soft white neck with the black 
mole, and at the good naive smile that always played on 
her face when something pleasant was said, the men would 
think, “Not so bad,” and would smile too; and the lady 
visitors, in the middle of the conversation, would suddenly 
grasp her hand and exclaim, “You darling!” in a burst of 
delight. 

The house, hers by inheritance, in which she had lived 
from birth, was located at the outskirts of the city on the 
Gypsy Road, not far from the Tivoli. From early evening 
till late at night she could hear the music in the theatre 
and the bursting of the rockets; and it seemed to her that 
Kukin was roaring and battling with his fate and taking 
his chief enemy, the indifferent public, by assault. Her 
heart melted softly, she felt no desire to sleep, and when 
Kukin returned home towards morning, she tapped on her 
window-pane, and through the curtains he saw her face and 
one shoulder and the kind smile she gave him. 

He proposed to her, and they were married. And when 


136 


BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 


he had a good look of her neck and her full vigorous 
shoulders, he clapped his hands and said: 

“You darling!” 

He was happy. But it rained on their wedding-day, and 
the expression of despair never left his face. 

They got along well together. She sat in the cashier’s 
box, kept the theatre in order, wrote down the expenses, 
and paid out the salaries. Her rosy cheeks, her kind naive 
smile, like a halo around her face, could be seen at the 
cashier’s window, behind the scenes, and in the cafe. She 
began to tell her friends that the theatre was the greatest, 
the most important, the most essential thing in the world, 
that it \vas the only place to obtain true enjoyment in and 
become humanised and educated. 

“But do you suppose the public appreciates it?” she 
asked. “What the public wants is the circus. Yesterday 
Vanichka and I gave Faust Burlesqued , and almost all the 
boxes were empty. If we had given some silly nonsense, I 
assure you, the theatre would have been overcrowded. To¬ 
morrow we’ll put Orpheus in Hades on. Do come.” 

Whatever Kukin said about the theatre and the actors, 
she repeated. She spoke, as he did, with contempt of the 
public, of its indifference to art, of its boorishness. She 
meddled in the rehearsals, corrected the actors, watched 
the conduct of the musicians; and when an unfavourable 
criticism appeared in the local paper, she wept and went 
to the editor to argue with him. 

The actors were fond of her and called her “Vanichka 
and I” and “the darling.” She was sorry for them and lent 
them small sums. When they bilked her, she never com¬ 
plained to her husband; at the utmost she shed a few 
tears. 

In winter, too, they got along nicely together. They 
leased a theatre in the town for the whole winter and sublet 
it for short periods to a Little Russian theatrical company, 
to a conjuror and to the local amateur players. 

Olenka grew fuller and was always beaming with con¬ 
tentment; while Kukin grew thinner and yellower and com¬ 
plained of his terrible losses, though he did fairly well the 
whole winter. At night he coughed, and she gave him rasp- 


THE DARLING 137 

berry syrup and lime water, rubbed him with eau de 
Cologne, and wrapped him up in soft coverings. 

“You are my precious sweet,” she said with perfect sin¬ 
cerity, stroking his hair. “You are such a dear.” 

At Lent he went to Moscow to get his company together, 
and, while without him, Olenka was unable to sleep. She 
sat at the window the whole time, gazing at the stars. 
She likened herself to the hens that are also uneasy and 
unable to sleep when their rooster is out of the coop. Kukin 
was detained in Moscow. He wrote he would be back dur¬ 
ing Easter Week, and in his letters discussed arrangements 
already for the Tivoli. But late one night, before Easter 
Monday, there was an ill-omened knocking at the wicket- 
gate. It was like a knocking on a barrel—boom, boom* 
boom! The sleepy cook ran barefooted, plashing through 
the puddles, to open the gate. 

“Open the gate, please,” said some one in a hollow bass 
voice. “I have a telegram for you.” 

Olenka had received telegrams from her husband before; 
but this time, somehow, she was numbed with terror. She 
opened the telegram with trembling hands and read: 

“Ivan Petrovich died suddenly to-day. Awaiting propt 
orders for wuneral Tuesday.” 

That was the way the telegram was written—“wuneral” 
—and another unintelligible word—“propt.” The telegram 
was signed by the manager of the opera company. 

“My dearest!” Olenka burst out sobbing. “Vanichka, 
my dearest, my sweetheart. Why did I ever meet you? 
Why did I ever get to know you and love you? To whom 
have you abandoned your poor Olenka, your poor, unhappy 
Olenka?” 

Kukin was buried on Tuesday in the Vagankov Ceme¬ 
tery in Moscow. Olenka returned home on Wednesday; 
and as soon as she entered her house she threw herself 
on her bed and broke into such loud sobbing that she 
could be heard in the street and in the neighbouring yards. 

“The darling!” said the neighbours, crossing themselves. 
“How Olga Semyonovna, the poor darling, is grieving!” 

Three months afterwards Olenka was returning home 
from mass, downhearted and in deep mourning. Beside her 


138 BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 

walked a man also returning from church, Vasily Pustova- 
lov, the manager of the merchant Babakayev’s lumber-yard. 
He was wearing a straw hat, a white vest with a gold chain, 
and looked more like a landowner than a business man. 

“Everything has its ordained course, Olga Semyonovna,” 
he said sedately, with sympathy in his voice. “And if any 
one near and dear to us dies, then it means it was God’s 
will and we should remember that and bear it with sub¬ 
mission.” 

He took her to the wicket-gate, said good-bye and went 
away. After that she heard his sedate voice the whole day; 
and on closing her eyes she instantly had a vision of his 
dark beard. She took a great liking to him. And evidently 
he had been impressed by her, too; for, not long after, an 
elderly woman, a distant acquaintance, came in to have 
a cup of coffee with her. As soon as the woman was seated 
at table she began to speak about Pustovalov—how good 
he was, what a steady man, and any woman could be glad 
to get him as a husband. Three days later Pustovalov him¬ 
self paid Olenka a visit. He stayed only about ten min¬ 
utes, and spoke little, but Olenka fell in love with him, fell 
in love so desperately that she did not sleep the whole night 
and burned as with fever. In the morning she sent for 
the elderly woman. Soon after, Olenka and Pustovalov 
were engaged, and the wedding followed. 

Pustovalov and Olenka lived happily together. He usu¬ 
ally stayed in the lumber-yard until dinner, then went out 
on business. In his absence Olenka took his place in the 
office until evening, attending to the book-keeping and 
despatching the orders. 

“Lumber rises twenty per cent every year nowadays,” 
she told her customers and acquaintances. “Imagine, we 
used to buy wood from our forests here. Now Vasichka 
has to go every year to the government of Mogilev to get 
wood. And what a tax! ” she exclaimed, covering her cheeks 
with her hands in terror. “What a tax!” 

She felt as if she had been dealing in lumber for ever 
so long, that the most important and essential thing in 
life was lumber. There was something touching and en¬ 
dearing in the way she pronounced the words, “beam,” 


THE DARLING 


139 


“joist,” “plank,” “stave,” “lath,” “gun-carriage,” “clamp.” 
At night she dreamed of whole mountains of boards and 
planks, long, endless rows of wagons conveying the wood 
somewhere, far, far from the city. She dreamed that a 
whole regiment of beams, 36 ft. x 5 in., were advancing in 
an upright position to do battle against the lumber-yard; 
that the beams and joists and clamps were knocking against 
each other, emitting the sharp crackling reports of dry 
wood, that they were all falling and then rising again, piling 
on top of each other. Olenka cried out in her sleep, and 
Pustovalov said to her gently: 

“Olenka my dear, what is the matter? Cross yourself.” 

Her husband’s opinions were all hers. If he thought the 
room was too hot, she thought so too. If he thought busi¬ 
ness was dull, she thought business was dull. Pustovalov 
was not fond of amusements and stayed home on holidays; 
she did the same. 

“You are always either at home or in the office,” said 
her friends. “Why don’t you go to the theatre or to the 
circus, darling?” 

“Vasichka and I never go to the theatre,” she answered 
sedately. “We have work to do, we have no time for non¬ 
sense. What does one get out of going to theatre?” 

On Saturdays she and Pustovalov went to vespers, and on 
holidays to early mass. On returning home they walked 
side by side with rapt faces, an agreeable smell emanating 
from both of them and her silk dress rustling pleasantly. At 
home they drank tea with milk-bread and various jams, 
and then ate pie. Every day at noontime there was an 
appetising odour in the yard and outside the gate of cabbage 
soup, roast mutton, or duck; and, on fast days, of fish. You 
couldn’t pass the gate without being seized by an acute 
desire to eat. The samovar was always boiling on the office 
table, and customers were treated to tea and biscuits. Once 
a week the married couple went to the baths and returned 
with red faces, walking side by side. 

“We are getting along very well, thank God,” said Olenka 
to her friends. “God grant that all should live as well as 
Vasichka and I.” 

When Pustovalov went to the government of Mogilev to 


140 BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 

buy wood, she was dreadfully homesick for him, did not 
sleep nights, and cried. Sometimes the veterinary surgeon 
of the regiment, Smirnov, a young man who lodged in the 
wing of her house, came to see her evenings. He related 
incidents, or they played cards together. This distracted 
her. The most interesting of his stories were those of his 
own life. He was married and had a son; but he had 
separated from his wife because she had deceived him, and 
now he hated her and sent her forty rubles a month for 
his son’s support. Olenka sighed, shook her head, and was 
sorry for him. 

“Well, the Lord keep you,” she said, as she saw him off 
to the door by candlelight. “Thank you for coming to kill 
time with me. May God give you health. Mother in 
Heaven!” She spoke very sedately, very judiciously, imi¬ 
tating her husband. The veterinary surgeon had disap¬ 
peared behind the door when she called out after him: “Do 
you know, Vladimir Platonych, you ought to make up with 
your wife. Forgive her, if only for the sake of your son. 
The child understands everything, you may be sure.” 

When Pustovalov returned, she told him in a low voice 
about the veterinary surgeon and his unhappy family life; 
and they sighed and shook their heads, and talked about 
the boy who must be homesick for his father. Then, by a 
strange association of ideas, they both stopped before the 
sacred images, made genuflections, and prayed to God to 
send them children.” * 

And so the Pustovalovs lived for full six years, quietly 
and peaceably, in perfect love and harmony. But once in 
the winter Vasily Andreyich, after drinking some hot tea, 
went out into the lumber-yard without a hat on his head, 
caught a cold and took sick. He was treated by the best 
physicians, but the malady progressed, and he died after 
an illness of four months. Olenka was again left a widow. 

“To whom have you left me, my darling?” she wailed 
after the funeral. “How shall I live now without you, 
wretched creature that I am. Pity me, good people, pity 
me, fatherless and motherless, all alone in the world!” 

She went about dressed in black and weepers, and she 
gave up wearing hats and gloves for good. She hardly left 


THE DARLING 


141 

the house except to go to church and to visit her husband’s 
grave. She almost led the life of a nun. 

It was not until six months had passed that she took 
off the weepers and opened her shutters. She began to go 
out occasionally in the morning to market with her cook. 
But how she lived at home and what went on there, could 
only be surmised. It could be surmised from the fact that 
she was seen in her little garden drinking tea with the 
veterinarian while he read the paper out load to her, 
and also from the fact that once on meeting an acquaint¬ 
ance at the post-office, she said to her: 

“There is no proper veterinary inspection in our town. 
That is why there is so much disease. You constantly hear 
of people getting sick from the milk and becoming infected 
by the horses and cows. The health of domestic animals 
ought really to be looked after as much as that of human 
beings.” 

She repeated the veterinarian’s words and held the same 
opinions as he about everything. It was plain that she could 
not exist a single year without an attachment, and she 
found her new happiness in the wing of her house. In any 
one else this would have been condemned; but no one 
could think ill of Olenka. Everything in her life was so 
transparent. She and the veterinary surgeon never spoke 
about the change in their relations. They tried, in fact, 
to conceal it, but unsuccessfully; for Olenka could have 
no secrets. When the surgeon’s colleagues from the regi¬ 
ment came to see him, she poured tea, and served the sup¬ 
per, and talked to them about the cattle plague, the foot and 
mouth disease, and the municipal slaughter houses. The 
surgeon was dreadfully embarrassed, and after the visitors 
had left, he caught her hand and hissed angrily: 

“Didn’t I ask you not to talk about what you don’t un¬ 
derstand? When we doctors discuss things, please don’t 
mix in. It’s getting to be a nuisance.” 

She looked at him in astonishment and alarm, and asked: 

“But, Volodichka, what am I to talk about?” 

And she threw her arms round his neck, with tears in her 
eyes, and begged him not to be angry. And they were both 
happy. 


142 


BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 


But their happiness was of short duration. The veteri¬ 
nary surgeon went away with his regiment to be gone for 
good, when it was transferred to some distant place almost 
as far as Siberia, and Olenka was left alone. 

Now she was completely alone. Her father had long been 
dead, and his armchair lay in the attic covered with dust 
and minus one leg. She got thin and homely, and the 
people who met her on the street no longer looked at her 
as they had used to, nor smiled at her. Evidently her best 
years were over, past and gone, and a new, dubious life 
was to begin which it were better not to think about. 

In the evening Olenka sat on the steps and heard the 
music playing and the rockets bursting in the Tivoli; but 
it no longer aroused any response in her. She looked list¬ 
lessly into the yard, thought of nothing, wanted nothing, 
and when night came on, she went to bed and dreamed of 
nothing but the empty yard. She ate and drank as though 
by compulsion. 

And what was worst of all, she no longer held any opin¬ 
ions. She saw and understood everything that went on 
around her, but she could not form an opinion about it. 
She knew of nothing to talk about. And how dreadful not 
to have opinions! For instance, you see a bottle, or you 
see that it is raining, or you see a muzhik riding by in a 
wagon. But what the bottle or the rain or the muzhik 
are for, or what the sense of them all is, you cannot tell— 
you cannot tell, not for a thousand rubles. In the days of 
Kukin and Pustovalov and then of the veterinary surgeon, 
Olenka had had an explanation for everything, and would 
have given her opinion freely no matter about what. But 
now there was the same emptiness in her heart and brain as 
in her yard. It was as galling and bitter as a taste of 
wormwood. 

Gradually the town grew up all around. The Gypsy 
Road had become a street, and where the Tivoli and the 
lumber-yard had been, there were now houses and a row 
of side streets. How quickly time flies! Olenka’s house 
turned gloomy, the roof rusty, the shed slanting. Dock and 
thistles overgrew the yard. Olenka herself had aged and 
grown homely. In the summer she sat on the steps, and 


THE DARLING 


143 

her soul was empty and dreary and bitter. When she caught 
the breath of spring, or when the wind wafted the chime 
of the cathedral bells, a sudden flood of memories would 
pour over her, her heart would expand with a tender warmth, 
and the tears would stream down her cheeks. But that 
lasted only a moment. Then would come emptiness again, 
and the feeling, What is the use of living? The black kit¬ 
ten Bryska rubbed up against her and purred softly, but 
the little creature’s caresses left Olenka untouched. That 
was not what she needed. What she needed was a love that 
would absorb her whole being, her reason, her whole soul, 
that would give her ideas, an object in life, that would warm 
her aging blood. And she shook the black kitten off her 
skirt angrily, saying: 

“Go away! What are you doing here?” 

And so day after day, year after year not a single joy, 
not a single opinion. Whatever Marva, the cook, said was 
all right. 

One hot day in July, towards evening, as the town cattle 
were being driven by, and the whole yard was filled with 
clouds of dust, there was suddenly a knocking at the gate. 
Olenka herself went to open it, and was dumbfounded to 
behold the veterinarian Smirnov. He had turned grey and 
was dressed as a civilian. All the old memories flooded into 
her soul, she could not restrain herself, she burst out cry¬ 
ing, and laid her head on Smirnov’s breast without saying 
a word. So overcome was she that she was totally uncon¬ 
scious of how they walked into the house and seated them¬ 
selves to drink tea. 

“My darling! ” she murmured, trembling with joy. “Vlad¬ 
imir Platonych, from where has God sent you?” 

“I want to settle here for good,” he told her. “I have 
resigned my position and have come here to try my for¬ 
tune as a free man and lead a settled life. Besides, it’s time 
to send my boy to the gymnasium. He is grown up now. 
You know, my wife and I have become reconciled.” 

“Where is she?” asked Olenka. 

“At the hotel with the boy. I am looking for lodgings.” 

“Good gracious, bless you, take my house. Why won’t 
my house do? Oh, dear! Why, I won’t ask any rent of 


144 


BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 


you,” Olenka burst out in the greatest excitement, and be¬ 
gan to cry again. “You live here, and the wing will be 
enough for me. Oh, Heavens, what a joy!” 

The very next day the roof was being painted and the 
walls whitewashed, and Olenka, arms akimbo, was going 
about the yard superintending. Her face brightened with 
her old smile. Her whole being revived and freshened, as 
though she had awakened from a long sleep. The veterin¬ 
arian’s wife and child arrived. She was a thin, plain woman, 
with a crabbed expression. The boy Sasha, small for his 
ten years of age, was a chubby child, with clear blue eyes 
and dimples in his cheeks. He made for the kitten the 
instant he entered the yard, and the place rang with his 
happy laughter. 

“Is that your cat, auntie?” he asked Olenka. “When she 
has little kitties, please give me one. Mamma is awfully 
afraid of mice.” 

Olenka chatted with him, gave him tea, and there was a 
sudden warmth in her bosom and a soft gripping at her 
heart, as though the boy were her own son. 

In the evening, when he sat in the dining-room studying 
his lessons, she looked at him tenderly and whispered to 
herself: 

“My darling, my pretty. You are such a clever child, so 
good to look at.” 

“An island is a tract of land entirely surrounded by 
water,” he recited. 

“An island is a tract of land,” she repeated—the first 
idea asseverated with conviction after so many years of si¬ 
lence and mental emptiness. 

She now had her opinions, and at supper discussed with 
Sasha’s parents how difficult the studies had become 
for the children at the gymnasium, but how, after all, a 
classical education was better than a commercial course, be¬ 
cause when you graduated from the gymnasium then the 
road was open, to you for any career at all. If you chose 
to, you could become a doctor, or, if you wanted to, you 
could become an engineer. 

Sasha began to go to the gymnasium. His mother left on 
a visit to her sister in Kharkov and never came back. The 


THE DARLING 


145 


father was away every day inspecting cattle, and some¬ 
times was gone three whole days at a time, so that Sasha, 
it seemed to Olenka, was utterly abandoned, was treated as 
if he were quite superfluous, and must be dying of hunger. 
So she transferred him into the wing along with herself and 
fixed up a little room for him there. 

Every morning Olenka would come into his room and 
find him sound asleep with his hand tucked under his 
cheek, so quiet that he seemed not to be breathing. What 
a shame to have to wake him, she thought. 

“Sashenka,” she said sorrowingly, “get up, darling. It’s 
time to go to the gymnasium.” 

He got up, dressed, said his prayers, then sat down to 
drink tea. He drank three glasses of tea, ate two large 
cracknels and half a buttered roll. The sleep was not yet 
out of him, so he was a little cross. 

“You don’t know your fable as you should, Sashenka,” 
said Olenka, looking at him as though he were departing on 
a long journey. “What a lot of trouble you are. You must 
try hard and learn, dear, and mind your teachers.” 

“Oh, let me alone, please,” said Sasha. 

Then he went down the street to the gymnasium, a little 
fellow wearing a large cap and carrying a satchel on his 
back. Olenka followed him noiselessly. 

“Sashenka,” she called. 

He looked round and she shoved a date or a caramel into 
his hand. When he reached the street of the gymnasium, 
he turned around and said, ashamed of being followed by 
a tall, stout woman: 

“You had better go home, aunt. I can go the rest of the 
way myself.” 

She stopped and stared after him until he had disappeared 
into the school entrance. 

Oh, how she loved him! Not one of her other ties had 
been so deep. Never before had she given herself so com¬ 
pletely, so disinterestedly, so cheerfully as now that her 
maternal instincts were all aroused. For this boy, who was 
not hers, for the dimples in his cheeks and for his big cap, 
she would have given her life, given it with joy and with 
tears of rapture. Why? Ah, indeed, why? 


146 


BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 


When she had seen Sasha off to the gjnnnasium, she re¬ 
turned home quietly, content, serene, overflowing with love. 
Her face, which had grown younger in the last half year, 
smiled and beamed. People who met her were pleased as 
they looked at her. 

“How are you, Olga Semyonovna, darling? How are 
you getting on, darling?” 

“The gymnasium course is very hard nowadays,” she 
told at the market. “It’s no joke. Yesterday the first 
class had a fable to learn by heart, a Latin translation, and 
a problem. How is a little fellow to do all that?” 

And she spoke of the teacher and the lessons and the text¬ 
books, repeating exactly what Sasha said about them. 

At three o’clock they had dinner. In the evening they 
prepared the lessons together, and Olenka wept with Sasha 
over the difficulties. When she put him to bed, she lingered 
a long time making the sign of the cross over him and mut¬ 
tering a prayer. And when she lay in bed, she dreamed of 
the far-away, misty future when Sasha would finish his 
studies and become a doctor or an engineer, have a large 
house of his own, with horses and a carriage, marry and 
have children. She would fall asleep still thinking of the 
same things, and tears would roll down her cheeks from her 
closed eyes. And the black cat would lie at her side purr¬ 
ing: “Mrr, mrr, mrr.” 

Suddenly there was a loud knocking at the gate. Olenka 
woke up breathless with fright, her heart beating violently. 
Half a minute later there was another knock. 

“A telegram from Kharkov,” she thought, her whole body 
in a tremble. “His mother wants Sasha to come to her in 
Kharkov. Oh, great God!” 

She was in despair. Her head, her feet, her hands turned 
cold. There was no unhappier creature in the world, she 
felt. But another minute passed, she heard voices. It was 
the veterinarian coming home from the club. 

“Thank God,” she thought. The load gradually fell from 
her heart, she was at ease again. And she went back to bed, 
thinking of Sasha who lay fast asleep in the next room 
and sometimes cried out in his sleep: 

“I’ll give it to you! Get aw T ay! Quit your scrapping!” 


THE BET 

By Anton P. Chekhov 

I 

I T was a dark autumn night. The old banker was pacing 
from corner to corner of his study, recalling to his mind 
the party he gave in the autumn fifteen years before. There 
were many clever people at the party and much interesting 
conversation. They talked among other things of capital 
punishment. The guests, among them not a few scholars 
and journalists, for the most part disapproved of capital 
punishment. They found it obsolete as a means of punish¬ 
ment, unfitted to a Christian State and immoral. Some of 
them thought that capital punishment should be replaced 
universally by life-imprisonment. 

“I don’t agree with you,” said the host. “I myself have 
experienced neither capital punishment nor life-imprison¬ 
ment, but if one may judge a priori , then in my opinion capi¬ 
tal punishment is more moral and more humane than im¬ 
prisonment. Execution kills instantly, life-imprisonment 
kills by degrees. Who is the more humane executioner, one 
who kills you in a few seconds or one who draws the life 
out of you incessantly, for years?” 

“They’re both equally immoral,” remarked one of the 
guests, “because their purpose is the same, to take away 
life. The State is not God. It has no right to take away 
that which it cannot give back, if it should so desire.” 

Among the company was a lawyer, a young man of about 
twenty-five. On being asked his opinion, he said: 

“Capital punishment and life-imprisonment are equally 
immoral; but if I were offered the choice between them, 
I would certainly choose the second. It’s better to live 
somehow than not to live at all.” 

There ensued a lively discussion. The banker who was 
i47 


BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 


148 

then younger and more nervous suddenly lost his temper, 
banged his fist on the table, and turning to the young 
lawyer, cried out: 

“It’s a lie. I bet you two millions you wouldn’t stick in 
a cell even for five years.” 

“If you mean it seriously,” replied the lawyer, “then I 
bet I’ll stay not five but fifteen.” 

“Fifteen! Done!” cried the banker. “Gentlemen, I 
stake two millions.” 

“Agreed. You stake two millions, I my freedom,” said 
the lawyer. 

So this wild, ridiculous bet came to pass. The banker, 
who at that time had too many millions to count, spoiled 
and capricious, was beside himself with rapture. During 
supper he said to the lawyer jokingly: 

“Come to your senses, young man, before it’s too late. 
Two millions are nothing to me, but you stand to lose three 
or four of the best years of your life. I say three or four, 
because you’ll never stick it out any longer. Don’t forget 
either, you unhappy man, that voluntary is much heavier 
than enforced imprisonment. The idea that you have the 
right to free yourself at any moment will poison the whole 
of your life in the cell. I pity you.” 

And now the banker, pacing from corner to corner, re¬ 
called all this and asked himself: 

“Why did I make this bet? What’s the good? The law¬ 
yer loses fifteen years of his life and I throw away two mil¬ 
lions. Will it convince people that capital punishment is 
worse or better than imprisonment for life? No, no! all 
stuff and rubbish. On my part, it was the caprice of a 
well-fed man; on the lawyer’s pure greed of gold.” 

He recollected further what happened after the evening 
party. It was decided that the lawyer must undergo his 
imprisonment under the strictest observation, in a garden 
wing of the banker’s house. It was agreed that during 
the period he would be deprived of the right to cross the 
threshold, to see living people, to hear human voices, and to 
receive letters and newspapers. He was permitted to have 
a musical instrument, to read books, to write letters, to 
drink wine and smoke tobacco. By the agreement he could 


THE BET 


149 


communicate, but only in silence, with the outside world 
through a little window specially constructed for this pur¬ 
pose. Everything necessary, books, music, wine, he could re¬ 
ceive in any quantity by sending a note through the window. 
The agreement provided for all the minutest details, which 
made the confinement strictly solitary, and it obliged the 
lawyer to remain exactly fifteen years from twelve o’clock of 
November 14th, 1870, to twelve o’clock of November 14th, 
1885. The least attempt on his part to violate the conditions, 
to escape if only for two minutes before the time freed 
the banker from the obligation to pay him the two millions. 

During the first year of imprisonment, the lawyer, as far 
as it was possible to judge from his short notes, suffered 
terribly from loneliness and boredom. From his wing day 
and night came the sound of the piano. He rejected wine 
and tobacco. “Wine,” he wrote, “excites desires, and de¬ 
sires are the chief foes of a prisoner; besides, nothing is 
more boring than to drink good wine alone,” and tobacco 
spoils the air in his room. During the first year the lawyer 
was sent books of a light character; novels with a compli¬ 
cated love interest, stories of crime and fantasy, comedies, 
and so on. 

In the second year the piano was heard no longer and 
the lawyer asked only for classics. In the fifth year, music 
was heard again, and the prisoner asked for wine. Those 
who watched him said that during the whole of that year he 
was only eating, drinking, and lying on his bed. He yawned 
often and talked angrily to himself. Books he did not 
read. Sometimes at nights he would sit down to write. He 
would write for a long time and tear it all up in the morning. 
More than once he was heard to weep. 

In the second half of the sixth year, the prisoner began 
zealously to study languages, philosophy, and history. He 
fell on these subjects so hungrily that the banker hardly 
had time to get books enough for him. In the space of 
four years about six hundred volumes were bought at his 
request. It was while that passion lasted that the banker 
received the following letter from the prisoner: “My dear 
gaoler, I am writing these lines in six languages. Show 
them to experts. Let them read them. If they do not find 


150 BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 

one single mistake, I beg you to give orders to have a gun 
fired off in the garden. By the noise I shall know that my 
efforts have not been in vain. The geniuses of all ages and 
countries speak in different languages; but in them all burns 
the same flame. Oh, if you knew my heavenly happiness 
now that I can understand them!” The prisoner’s desire 
was fulfilled. Two shots were fired in the garden by the 
banker’s order. 

Later on, after the tenth year, the lawyer sat immovable 
before his table and read only the New Testament. The 
banker found it strange that a man who in four years had 
mastered six hundred erudite volumes, should have spent 
nearly a year in reading one book, easy to understand and 
by no means thick. The New Testament was then replaced 
by the history of religions and theology. 

During the last two years of his confinement the prisoner 
read an extraordinary amount, quite haphazard. Now he 
would apply himself to the natural sciences, then he would 
read Byron or Shakespeare. Notes used to come from him 
in which he asked to be sent at the same time a book on 
chemistry, a text-book of medicine, a novel, and some trea¬ 
tise on philosophy or theology. He read as though he were 
swimming in the sea among broken pieces of wreckage, 
and in his desire to save his life was eagerly grasping one 
piece after another. 


II 

The banker recalled all this, and thought: 

“To-morrow at twelve o’clock he receives his freedom. 
Under the agreement, I shall have to pay him two millions. 
If I pay, it’s all over with me. I am ruined for ever . . .” 

Fifteen years before he had too many millions to count, 
but now he was afraid to ask himself which he had more of, 
money or debts. Gambling on the Stock-Exchange, risky 
speculation, and the recklessness of which he could not rid 
himself even in old age, had gradually brought his business 
to decay; and the fearless, self-confident, proud man of busi¬ 
ness had become an ordinary banker, trembling at every 
rise and fall in the market. 


THE BET 


I 5 I 

“That cursed bet,” murmured the old man clutching his 
head in despair. . . . “Why didn’t the man die? He’s 
only forty years old. He will take away my last farthing, 
marry, enjoy life, gamble on the Exchange, and I will look 
on like an envious beggar and hear the same words from 
him every day: T’m obliged to you for the happiness of 
my life. Let me help you.’ No, it’s too much! The only 
escape from bankruptcy and disgrace—is that the man 
should die.” 

The clock had just struck three. The banker was list¬ 
ening. In the house every one was asleep, and one could 
hear only the frozen trees whining outside the windows. 
Trying to make no sound, he took out of his safe the key 
of the door which had not been opened for fifteen years, 
put on his overcoat, and went out of the house. The garden 
was dark and cold. It was raining. A damp, penetrating 
wind howled in the garden and gave the trees no rest. 
Though he strained his eyes, the banker could see neither 
the ground, nor the white statues, nor the garden wing, nor 
the trees. Approaching the garden wing, he called the watch¬ 
man twice. There was no answer. Evidently the watch¬ 
man had taken shelter from the bad weather and was now 
asleep somewhere in the kitchen or the greenhouse. 

“If I have the courage to fulfil my intention,” thought the 
old man, “the suspicion will fall on the watchman first 
of all.” 

In the darkness he groped for the steps and the door 
and entered the hall of the garden-wing, then poked his 
way into a narrow passage and struck a match. Not a soul 
was there. Some one’s bed, with no bedclothes on it, stood 
there, and an iron stove loomed dark in the corner. The 
seals on the door that led into the prisoner’s room were 
unbroken. 

When the match went out, the old man, trembling from 
agitation, peeped into the little window. 

In the prisoner’s room a candle was burning dimly. The 
prisoner himself sat by the table. Only his back, the hair 
on his head and his hands were visible. Open books were 
strewn about on the table, the two chairs, and on the carpet 
near the table. 


'52 


BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 


Five minutes passed and the prisoner never once stirred. 
Fifteen years’ confinement had taught him to sit motion¬ 
less. The banker tapped on the window with his finger, 
but the prisoner made no movement in reply. Then the 
banker cautiously tore the seals from the door and put the 
key into the lock. The rusty lock gave a hoarse groan and 
the door creaked. The banker expected instantly to hear a 
cry of surprise and the sound of steps. Three minutes 
passed and it was as quiet inside as it had been before. 
He made up his mind to enter. 

Before the table sat a man, unlike an ordinary human 
being. It was a skeleton, with tight-drawn skin, with long 
curly hair like a woman’s, and a shaggy beard. The colour 
of his face was yellow, of an earthy shade; the cheeks 
were sunken, the back long and narrow, and the hand upon 
which he leaned his hairy head was so lean and skinny that 
it was painful to look upon. His hair was already silvering 
with grey, and no one who glanced at the senile emaciation 
of the face would have believed that he was only forty 
years old. On the table, before his bended head, lay a 
sheet of paper on which something was written in a tiny 
hand. 

“Poor devil,” thought the banker, “he’s asleep and prob¬ 
ably seeing millions in his dreams. I have only to take and 
throw this half-dead thing on the bed, smother him a mo¬ 
ment with the pillow, and the most careful examination 
will find no trace of unnatural death. But, first, let us read 
what he has written here.” 

The banker took the sheet from the table and read: 

“To-morrow at twelve o’clock midnight, I shall obtain 
my freedom and the right to mix with people. But before 
I leave this room and see the sun I think it necessary to say 
a few words to you. On my own clear conscience and be¬ 
fore God who sees me I declare to you that I despise free¬ 
dom, life, health, and all that your books call the blessings 
of the world. 

“For fifteen years I have diligently studied earthly life. 
True, I saw neither the earth nor the people, but in your 
books I drank fragrant wine, sang songs, hunted deer and 
wild boar in the forests, loved women. . . . And beautiful 


THE BET 


153 


women, like clouds ethereal, created by the magic of your 
poets’ genius, visited me by night and whispered to me won¬ 
derful tales, which made my head drunken. In your books 
I climbed the summits of Elbruz and Mont Blanc and saw 
from there how the sun rose in the morning, and in the 
evening suffused the sky, the ocean and the mountain 
ridges with a purple gold. I saw from there how above me 
lightnings glimmered cleaving the clouds; I saw green for¬ 
ests, fields, rivers, lakes, cities; I heard syrens singing, and 
the playing of the pipes of Pan; I touched the wings of 
beautiful devils who came flying to me to speak of God. 
... In your books I cast myself into bottomless abysses, 
worked miracles, burned cities to the ground, preached new 
religions, conquered whole countries. . . . 

“Your books gave me wisdom. All that unwearying 
human thought created in the centuries is compressed to a 
little lump in my skull. I know that I am cleverer than 
you all. 

“And I despise your books, despise all worldly blessings 
and wisdom. Everything is void, frail, visionary and delu¬ 
sive as a mirage. Though you be proud and wise and 
beautiful, yet will death wipe you from the face of the 
earth like the mice underground; and your posterity, your 
history, and the immortality of your men of genius will be as 
frozen slag, burnt down together with the terrestrial globe. 

“You are mad, and gone the wrong way. You take false¬ 
hood for truth and ugliness for beauty. You would marvel if 
suddenly apple and orange trees should bear frogs and 
lizards instead of fruit, and if roses should begin to breathe 
the odour of a sweating horse. So do I marvel at you, who 
have bartered heaven for earth. I do not want to under¬ 
stand you. 

“That I may show you in deed my contempt for that 
by which you live, I waive the two millions of which I once 
dreamed as of paradise, and which I now despise. That I 
may deprive myself of my right to them, I shall come out 
from here five minutes before the stipulated term, and thus 
shall violate the agreement.” 

When he had read, the banker put the sheet on the table, 
kissed the head of the strange man, and began to weep. 


iS4 


BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 


He went out of the wing. Never at any other time, not even 
after his terrible losses on the Exchange, had he. felt such 
contempt for himself as now. Coming home, he lay down 
on his bed, but agitation and tears kept him a long time 
from sleeping. . . . 

The next morning the poor watchman came running to him 
and told him that they had seen the man who lived in the 
wing climb through the window into the garden. He had 
gone to the gate and disappeared. The banker instantly 
went with his servants to the wing and established the 
escape of his prisoner. To avoid unnecessary rumours he 
took the paper with the renunciation from the table and, on 
his return, locked it in his safe. 


VANKA 

By Anton P. Chekhov 

N INE-YEAR-OLD Vanka Zhukov, who had been ap¬ 
prentice to the shoemaker Aliakhin for three months, 
did not go to bed the night before Christmas. He waited 
till the master and mistress and the assistants had gone 
out to an early church-service, to procure from his employ¬ 
er’s cupboard a small phial of ink and a penholder with a 
rusty nib; then, spreading a crumpled sheet of paper in 
front of him, he began to write. 

Before, however, deciding to make the first letter, he 
looked furtively at the door and at the window, glanced sev¬ 
eral times at the sombre ikon, on either side of which 
stretched shelves full of lasts, and heaved a heart-rending 
sigh. The sheet of paper was spread on a bench, and he 
himself was on his knees in front of it. 

“Dear Grandfather Konstantin Makarych,” he wrote, 
“I am writing you a letter. I wish you a Happy Christ¬ 
mas and all God’s holy best. I have no mamma or papa, 
you are all I have.” 

Vanka gave a look towards the window in which shone 
the reflection of his candle, and vividly pictured to himself 
his grandfather, Konstantin Makarych, who was night- 
watchman at Messrs. Zhivarev. He was a small, lean, 
unusually lively and active old man of sixty-five, always 
smiling and blear-eyed. All day he slept in the servants’ 
kitchen or trifled with the cooks. At night, enveloped in an 
ample sheep-skin coat, he strayed round the domain tapping 
with his cudgel. Behind him, each hanging its head, walked 
the old bitch Kashtanka, and the dog Viun, so named be¬ 
cause of his black coat and long body and his resemblance 
to a loach. Viun was an unusually civil and friendly dog, 
looking as kindly at a stranger as at his masters, but 
he was not to be trusted. Beneath his deference and hum- 

155 


BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 


156 

bleness was hid the most inquisitorial maliciousness. No 
one knew better than he how to sneak up and take a bite 
at a leg, or slip into the larder or steal a muzhik’s chicken. 
More than once they had nearly broken his hind-legs, twice 
he had been hung up, every week he was nearly flogged to 
death, but he always recovered. 

At this moment, for certain, Vanka’s grandfather must 
be standing at the gate, blinking his eyes at the bright red 
windows of the village church, stamping his feet in their 
high-felt boots, and jesting with the people in the yard; his 
cudgel will be hanging from his belt, he will be hugging 
himself with cold, giving a little dry, old man’s cough, and at 
times pinching a servant-girl or a cook. 

“Won’t we take some snuff?” he asks, holding out his 
snuff-box to the women. The women take a pinch of snuff, 
and sneeze. 

The old man goes into indescribable ecstasies, breaks into 
loud laughter, and cries: 

“Off with it, it will freeze to your nose!” 

He gives his snuff to the dogs, too. Kashtanka sneezes, 
twitches her nose, and walks away offended. Viun deferen¬ 
tially refuses to sniff and wags his tail. It is glorious 
weather, not a breath of wind, clear, and frosty; it is a dark 
night, but the whole village, its white roofs and streaks 
of smoke from the chimneys, the trees silvered with hoar¬ 
frost, and the snowdrifts, you can see it all. The sky scin¬ 
tillates with bright twinkling stars, and the Milky Way 
stands out so clearly that it looks as if it had been pol¬ 
ished and rubbed over with snow for the holidays. . . . 

Vanka sighs, dips his pen in the ink, and continues to 
write: 

“Last night I got a thrashing, my master dragged me by 
my hair into the yard, and belaboured me with a shoe¬ 
maker’s stirrup, because, while I was rocking his brat in 
its cradle, I unfortunately fell asleep. And during the week, 
my mistress told me to clean a herring, and I began by its 
tail, so she took the herring and stuck its snout into my 
face. The assistants tease me, send me to the tavern for 
vodka, make me steal the master’s cucumbers, and the 
master beats me with whatever is handy. Food there is 


VANKA 


157 


none; in the morning it’s bread, at dinner gruel, and in the 
evening bread again. As for tea or sour-cabbage soup, 
the master and the mistress themselves guzzle that. They 
make me sleep in the vestibule, and when their brat cries, 
I don’t sleep at all, but have to rock the cradle. Dear 
Grandpapa, for Heaven’s sake, take me away from here, 
home to our village, I can’t bear this any more. ... I bow 
to the ground to you, and will pray to God for ever and 
ever, take me from here or I shall die. . . .” 

The corners of Vanka’s mouth went down, he rubbed his 
eyes with his dirty fist, and sobbed. 

“I’ll grate your tobacco for you,” he continued, “I’ll pray 
to God for you, and if there is anything wrong, then flog 
me like the grey goat. And if you really think I shan’t 
find work, then I’ll ask the manager, for Christ’s sake, to 
let me clean the boots, or I’ll go instead of Fedya as 
underherdsman. Dear Grandpapa, I can’t bear this any 
more, it’ll kill me. ... I wanted to run away to our vil¬ 
lage, but I have no boots, and I was afraid of the frost, and 
when I grow up I’ll look after you, no one shall harm you, 
and when you die I’ll pray for the repose of your soul, just 
like I do for mamma Pelagueya. 

“As for Moscow, it is a large town, there are all gentle¬ 
men’s houses, lots of horses, no sheep, and the dogs are 
not vicious. The children don’t come round at Christmas 
with a star, no one is allowed to sing in the choir, and once 
I saw in a shop window hooks on a line and fishing rods, 
all for sale, and for every kind of fish, awfully convenient. 
And there was one hook which would catch a sheat-fish 
weighing a pound. 'And there are shops with guns, like the 
master’s, and I am sure they must cost 100 rubles each. 
And in the meat-shops there are woodcocks, partridges, and 
hares, but who shot them or where they come from, the 
shopman won’t say. 

“Dear Grandpapa, and when the masters give a Christ¬ 
mas tree, take a golden walnut and hide it in my green 
box. Ask the young lady, Olga Ignatyevna, for it, say 
it’s for Vanka.” 

Vanka sighed convulsively, and again stared at the win¬ 
dow. He remembered that his grandfather always went 


158 


BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 


to the forest for the Christmas tree, and took his 
grandson with him. What happy times! The frost crack¬ 
led, his grandfather crackled, and as they both did, Vanka 
did the same. Then before cutting down the Christmas tree 
his grandfather smoked his pipe, took a long pinch of 
snuff, and made fun of poor frozen little Vanka. . . . The 
young fir trees, wrapt in hoar-frost, stood motionless, wait¬ 
ing for which of them would die. Suddenly a hare springing 
from somewhere would dart over the snowdrift. . . . His 
grandfather could not help shouting: 

“Catch it, catch it, catch it! Ah, short-tailed devil!” 

When the tree was down, his grandfather dragged it to the 
master’s house, and there they set about decorating it. The 
young lady, Olga Ignatyevna, Vanka’s great friend, busied 
herself most about it. When little Vanka’s mother, Pela- 
gueya, was still alive, and was servant-woman in the house, 
Olga Ignatyevna used to stuff him with sugar-candy, and, 
having nothing to do, taught him to read, write, count up 
to one hundred, and even to dance the quadrille. When 
Pelagueya died, they placed the orphan Vanka in the kitchen 
with his grandfather, and from the kitchen he was sent to 
Moscow to Aliakhin, the shoemaker. 

“Come quick, dear Grandpapa,” continued Vanka, “I be¬ 
seech you for Christ’s sake take me from here. Have pity 
on a poor orphan, for here they beat me, and I am fright¬ 
fully hungry, and so sad that I can’t tell you, I cry all the 
time. The other day the master hit me on the head with a 
last; I fell to the ground, and only just returned to life. My 
life is a misfortune, worse than any dog’s. ... I send 
greetings to Aliona, to one-eyed Tegor, and the coach¬ 
man, and don’t let any one have my mouth-organ. I 
remain, your grandson, Ivan Zhukov, dear Grandpapa, do 
come.” 

Vanka folded his sheet of paper in four, and put it into 
an envelope purchased the night before for a kopek. He 
thought a little, dipped the pen into the ink, and wrote 
the address: 

“The village, to my grandfather.” He then scratched his 
head, thought again, and added: “Konstantin Makarych.” 
Pleased at not having been interfered with in his writing, he 


VANKA 


159 

put on his cap, and, without putting on his sheep-skin coat, 
ran out in his shirt-sleeves into the street. 

The shopman at the poulterer’s, from whom he had in¬ 
quired the night before, had told him that letters were to be 
put into post-boxes, and from there they were conveyed 
over the whole earth in mail troikas by drunken post-boys 
and to the sound of bells. Vanka ran to the first post-box 
and slipped his precious letter into the slit. 

An hour afterwards, lulled by hope, he was sleeping 
soundly. In his dreams he saw a stove, by the stove his 
grandfather sitting with his legs dangling down, barefooted, 
and reading a letter to the cooks, and Viun walking round 
the stove wagging his tail. 


HIDE AND SEEK 

By Fiodor Sologub 

E VERYTHING in Lelechka’s nursery was bright, pretty, 
and cheerful. Lelechka’s sweet voice charmed her 
mother. Lelechka was a delightful child. There was no 
other such child, there never had been, and there never 
would be. Lelechka’s mother, Serafima Aleksandrovna, was 
sure of that. Lelechka’s eyes were dark and large, her 
cheeks were rosy, her lips were made for kisses and for 
laughter. But it was not these charms in Lelechka that 
gave her mother the keenest joy. Lelechka was her mother’s 
only child. That was why every movement of Lelechka’s 
bewitched her mother. It was great bliss to hold Lelechka 
on her knees and to fondle her; to feel the little girl in her 
arms—a thing as lively and as bright as a little bird. 

To tell the truth, Serafima Aleksandrovna felt happy only 
in the nursery. She felt cold with her husband. 

Perhaps it was because he himself loved the cold—he 
loved to drink cold water, and to breathe cold air. He was 
always fresh and cool, with a frigid smile, and wherever he 
passed cold currents seemed to move in the air. 

The Nesletyevs, Sergey Modestovich and Serafima Aleks¬ 
androvna, had married without love or calculation, because 
it was the accepted thing. He was a young man of thirty- 
five, she a young woman of twenty-five; both were of the 
same circle and well brought up; he was expected to take 
a wife, and the time had come for her to take a husband. 

It even seemed to Serafima Aleksandrovna that she was 
in love with her future husband, and this made her happy. 
He looked handsome and well-bred; his intelligent grey 
eyes always preserved a dignified expression; and he ful¬ 
filled his obligations of a fiance with irreproachable gentle¬ 
ness. 

160 


HIDE AND SEEK 


161 


The bride was also good-looking; she was a tall, dark¬ 
eyed, dark-haired girl, somewhat timid but very tactful. 
He was not after her dowry, though it pleased him to know 
that she had something. He had connexions, and his wife 
came of good, influential people. This might, at the proper 
opportunity, prove useful. Always irreproachable and tact¬ 
ful, Nesletyev got on in his position not so fast that any 
one should envy him, nor yet so slow that he should envy 
any one else—everything came in the proper measure and 
at the proper time. 

After their marriage there was nothing in the manner 
of Sergey Modestovich to suggest anything wrong to his 
wife. Later, however, when his wife was about to have a 
child, Sergey Modestovich established connexions elsewhere 
of a light and temporary nature. Serafima Aleksandrovna 
found this out, and, to her own astonishment, was not par¬ 
ticularly hurt; she awaited her infant with a restless antici¬ 
pation that swallowed every other feeling. 

A little girl was born; Serafima Aleksandrovna gave her¬ 
self up to her. At the beginning she used to tell her hus¬ 
band, with rapture, of all the joyous details of Lelechka’s 
existence. But she soon found that he listened to her with¬ 
out the slightest interest, and only from the habit of polite¬ 
ness. Serafima Aleksandrovna drifted farther and farther 
away from him. She loved her little girl with the ungrati¬ 
fied passion that other women, deceived in their husbands, 
show their chance young lovers. 

“Mamochka, let’s play priatki” (hide and seek), cried 
Lelechka, pronouncing the r like the l, so that the word 
sounded “pliatki.” 

This charming inability to speak always made Serafima 
Aleksandrovna smile with tender rapture. Lelechka then 
ran away, stamping with her plump little legs over 
the carpets, and hid herself behind the curtains near her 
bed. 

“Tiu-tiu, mamochka!” she cried out in her sweet, laugh¬ 
ing voice, as she looked out with a single roguish eye. 

“Where is my baby girl?” the mother asked, as she 
looked for Lelechka and made believe that she did not see 
her. 


BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 


162 

And Lelechka poured out her rippling laughter in her 
hiding place. Then she came out a little farther, and her 
mother, as though she had only just caught sight of her, 
seized her by her little shoulders and exclaimed joyously: 
“Here she is, my Lelechka!” 

Lelechka laughed long and merrily, her head close to her 
mother’s knees, and all of her cuddled up between her 
mother’s white hands. Her mother’s eyes glowed with pas¬ 
sionate emotion. 

“Now, mamochka, you hide,” said Lelechka, as she ceased 
laughing. 

Her mother went to hide. Lelechka turned away as 
though not to see, but watched her mamochka stealthily all 
the time. Mamma hid behind the cupboard, and exclaimed: 
“Tiu-tiu, baby girl!” 

Lelechka ran round the room and looked into all the 
corners, making believe, as her mother had done before, 
that she was seeking—though she really knew all the time 
where her mamochka was standing. 

“Where’s my mamochka?” asked Lelechka. “She’s not 
here, and she’s not here,” she kept on repeating, as she ran 
from comer to corner. 

Her mother stood, with suppressed breathing, her head 
pressed against the wall, her hair somewhat disarranged. A 
smile of absolute bliss played on her red lips. 

The nurse, Fedosya, a good-natured and fine-looking, if 
somewhat stupid woman, smiled as she looked at her mistress 
with her characteristic expression, which seemed to say that 
it was not for her to object to gentlewomen’s caprices. She 
thought to herself: “The mother is like a little child her¬ 
self—look how excited she is.” 

Lelechka was getting nearer her mother’s corner. Her 
mother was growing more absorbed every moment by her 
interest in the game; her heart beat with short quick strokes, 
and she pressed even closer to the wall, disarranging her 
hair still more. Lelechka suddenly glanced toward her 
mother’s corner and screamed with joy. 

“I’ve found ’00,” she cried out loudly and joyously, mis¬ 
pronouncing her words in a way that again made her mother 
happy. 


HIDE AND SEEK 


163 


She pulled her mother by her hands to the middle of 
the room, they were merry and they laughed; and Lelechka 
again hid her head against her mother’s knees, and went on 
lisping and lisping, without end, her sweet little words, so 
fascinating yet so awkward. 

Sergey Modestovich was coming at this moment toward 
the nursery. Through the half-closed doors he heard the 
laughter, the joyous outcries, the sound of romping. He 
entered the nursery, smiling his genial cold smile; he was 
irreproachably dressed, and he looked fresh and erect, and 
he spread round him an atmosphere of cleanliness, fresh¬ 
ness and coldness. He entered in the midst of the lively 
game, and he confused them all by his radiant coldness. 
Even Fedosya felt abashed, now for her mistress, now for 
herself. Serafima Aleksandrovna at once became calm and 
apparently cold—and this mood communicated itself to 
the little girl, who ceased to laugh, but looked instead, 
silently and intently, at her father. 

Sergey Modestovich gave a swift glance round the room. 
He liked coming here, where everything was beautifully ar¬ 
ranged; this was done by Serafima Aleksandrovna, who 
wished to surround her little girl, from her very infancy, 
only with the loveliest things. Serafima Aleksandrovna 
dressed herself tastefully; this, too, she did for Lelechka, 
with the same end in view. One thing Sergey Modestovich 
had not become reconciled to, and this was his wife’s almost 
continuous presence in the nursery. 

“It’s just as I thought. ... I knew that I’d find you 
here,” he said with a derisive and condescending smile. 

They left the nursery together. As he followed his wife 
through the door Sergey Modestovich said rather indiffer¬ 
ently, in an incidental way, laying no stress on his words: 
“Don’t you think that it would be well for the little girl if 
she were sometimes without your company? Merely, you 
see, that the child should feel its own individuality,” he.ex- 
plained in answer to Serafima Aleksandrovna’s puzzled 
glance. 

“She’s still so little,” said Serafima Aleksandrovna. 

“In any case, this is but my humble opinion. I don’t 
insist. It’s your kingdom there.” 


164 BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 

“I’ll think it over,” his wife answered, smiling, as he did, 
coldly but genially. 

Then they began to talk of something else. 


II 

Nurse Fedosya, sitting in the kitchen that evening, was 
telling the silent housemaid Darya and the talkative old 
cook Agathya about the young lady of the house, and how 
the child loved to play priatki with her mother—“She 
hides her little face, and cries ‘tiutiu’!” 

“And the mistress herself is like a little one,” added 
Fedosya, smiling. 

Agathya listened and shook her head ominously; while 
her face became grave and reproachful. 

“That the mistress does it, well, that’s one thing; but 
that the young lady does it, that’s bad.” 

“Why?” asked Fedosya with curiosity. 

This expression of curiosity gave her face the look of a 
wooden, roughly-painted doll. 

“Yes, that’s bad,” repeated Agathya with conviction. 
“Terribly bad!” 

“Well?” said Fedosya, the ludicrous expression of curios¬ 
ity on her face becoming more emphatic. 

“She’ll hide, and hide, and hide away,” said Agathya, 
in a mysterious whisper, as she looked cautiously toward 
the door. 

“What are you saying?” exclaimed Fedosya, frightened. 

“It’s the truth I’m saying, remember my words,” Agathya 
went on with the same assurance and secrecy. “It’s the sur¬ 
est sign.” 

The old woman had invented this sign, quite suddenly, 
herself; and she was evidently very proud of it. 


Ill 

Lelechka was asleep, and Serafima Aleksandrovna was sit¬ 
ting in her own room, thinking with joy and tenderness 


HIDE AND SEEK 


165 

of Lelechka. Lelechka was in her thoughts, first a sweet, 
tiny girl, then a sweet, big girl, then again a delightful little 
girl; and so until the end she remained mamma’s little 
Lelechka. 

Serafima Aleksandrovna did not even notice that Fe¬ 
dosya came up to her and paused before her. Fedosya 
had a worried, frightened look. 

“Madam, madam,” she said quietly, in a trembling 
voice. 

Serafima Aleksandrovna gave a start. Fedosya’s face 
made her anxious. 

“What is it, Fedosya?” she asked with great concern. 
“Is there anything wrong with Lelechka?” 

“No, madam,” said Fedosya, as she gesticulated with 
her hands to reassure her mistress and to make her sit 
down. “Lelechka is asleep, may God be with her! Only 
I’d like to say something—you see—Lelechka is always 
hiding herself—that’s not good.” 

Fedosya looked at her mistress with fixed eyes, which 
had grown round from fright. 

“Why not good?” asked Serafima Aleksandrovna, with 
vexation, succumbing involuntarily to vague fears. 

“I can’t tell you how bad it is,” said Fedosya, and her 
face expressed the most decided confidence. 

“Please speak in a sensible way,” observed Serafima 
Aleksandrovna dryly. “I understand nothing of what you 
are saying.” 

“You see, madam, it’s a kind of omen,” explained Fe¬ 
dosya abruptly, in a shamefaced way. 

“Nonsense!” said Serafima Aleksandrovna. 

She did not wish to hear any further as to the sort of 
omen it was, and what it foreboded. But, somehow, a 
sense of fear and of sadness crept into her mood, and it 
was humiliating to feel that an absurd tale should disturb 
her beloved fancies, and should agitate her so deeply. 

“Of course I know that gentlefolk don’t believe in 
omens, but it’s a bad omen, madam,” Fedosya went on in 
a doleful voice, “the young lady will hide, and hicle. . . .” 

Suddenly she burst into tears, sobbing out loudly: “She’ll 
hide, and hide, and hide away, angelic little soul, in a damp 


166 BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 

grave,” she continued, as she wiped her tears with her apron 
and blew her nose. 

“Who told you all this?” asked Serafima Aleksandrovna 
in an austere low voice. 

“Agathya says so, madam,” answered Fedosya; “it’s she 
that knows.” 

“Knows!” exclaimed Se/afima Aleksandrovna in irritation, 
as though she wished to protect herself somehow from this 
sudden anxiety. “What nonsense! Please don’t come to me 
with any such notions ii. the future. Now you may go.” 

Fedosya, dejected, her feelings hurt, left her mistress. 

“What nonsense! As though Lelechka could die!” 
thought Serafima Aleksandrovna to herself, trying to conquer 
the feeling of coldness and fear which took possession J?f 
her at the thought of the possible death of Lelechka. Sera¬ 
fima Aleksandrovna, upon reflection, attributed these 
women’s beliefs in omens to ignorance. She saw clearly that 
there could be no possible connexion between a child’s quite 
ordinary diversion and the continuation of the child’s life. 
She made a special effort that evening to occupy her mind 
with other matters, but her thoughts returned involuntarily 
to the fact that Lelechka loved to hide herself. 

When Lelechka was still quite small, and had learned to 
distinguish between her mother and her nurse, she some¬ 
times, sitting in her nurse’s arms, made a sudden roguish 
grimace, and hid her laughing face in the nurse’s shoulder. 
Then she would look out with a sly glance. 

Of late, in those rare moments of the mistress’ absence 
from the nursery, Fedosya had again taught Lelechka to 
hide; and when Lelechka’s mother, on coming in, saw how 
lovely the child looked when she was hiding, she herself 
began to play hide and seek with her tiny daughter. 


IV 

The next day Serafima Aleksandrovna, absorbed in her 
joyous cares for Lelechka, had forgotten Fedosya’s words 
of the day before. 

But when she returned to the nursery, after having or- 


HIDE AND SEEK 


167 


dered the dinner, and she heard Lelechka suddenly cry 
<( Tiu-tiu!” from under the table, a feeling of fear suddenly 
took hold of her. Though she reproached herself at once 
for this unfounded, superstitious dread, nevertheless she 
could not enter wholeheartedly into the spirit of Lelechka’s 
favourite game, and she tried to divert Lelechka’s attention 
to something else. 

Lelechka was a lovely and obedient child. She eagerly 
complied with her mother’s new wishes. But as she had got 
into the habit of hiding from her mother in some corner, 
and of crying out “Tiu-tiu 1 ” so even that day she returned 
more than once to the game. 

Serafima Aleksandrovna tried desperately to amuse Le¬ 
lechka. This was not so easy because restless, threatening 
thoughts obtruded themselves constantly. 

“Why does Lelechka keep on recalling the tiu-tiu? Why 
does she not get tired of the same thing—of eternally clos¬ 
ing her eyes, and of hiding her face? Perhaps,” thought 
Serafima Aleksandrovna, “she is not as strongly drawn to 
the world as other children, who are attracted by many 
things. If this is so, is it not a sign of organic weakness? 
Is it not a germ of the unconscious non-desire to live?” 

Serafima Aleksandrovna was tormented by presentiments. 
She felt ashamed of herself for ceasing to play hide and 
seek with Lelechka before Fedosya. But this game had be¬ 
come agonising to her, all the more agonising because she 
had a real desire to play it, and because something drew 
her very strongly to hide herself from Lelechka and to seek 
out the hiding child. Serafima Aleksandrovna herself began 
the game once or twice, though she played it with a heavy 
heart. She suffered as though committing an evil deed with 
full consciousness. 

It was a sad day for Serafima Aleksandrovna. 


V 

Lelechka was about to fall asleep. No sooner had she 
climbed into her little bed, protected by a network on all 
sides, than her eyes began to close from fatigue. Her mother 


168 BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 

covered her with a blue blanket. Lelechka drew her sweet 
little hands from under the blanket and stretched them out 
to embrace her mother. Her mother bent down. Lelechka, 
with a tender expression on her sleepy face, kissed her 
mother and let her head fall on the pillow. As her hands 
hid themselves under the blanket Lelechka whispered: 
“The hands tiu-tiu!” 

The mother’s heart seemed to stop—Lelechka lay there so 
small, so frail, so quiet. Lelechka smiled gently, closed her 
eyes and said quietly: “The eyes tiu-tiu!” 

Then even more quietly: “Lelechka tiu-tiu!” 

With these words she fell asleep, her face pressing the 
pillow. She seemed so small and so frail under the blanket 
that covered her. Her mother looked at her with sad eyes. 

Serafima Aleksandrovna remained standing over Lelechka’s 
bed a long while, and she kept looking at Lelechka with 
tenderness and fear. 

“I’m a mother: is it possible that I shouldn’t be able to 
protect her?” she thought, as she imagined the various ills 
that might befall Lelechka. 

She prayed long that night, but the prayer did not re¬ 
lieve her sadness. 


VI 

Several days passed. Lelechka caught cold. The fever 
came upon her at night. When Serafima Aleksandrovna, 
awakened by Fedosya, came to Lelechka and saw her look¬ 
ing so hot, so restless, and so tormented, she instantly 
recalled the evil omen, and a hopeless despair took posses¬ 
sion of her from the first moments. 

A doctor was called, and everything was done that is 
usual on such occasions—but the inevitable happened. 
Serafima Aleksandrovna tried to console herself with the 
hope that Lelechka would get well, and would again laugh 
and play—yet this seemed to her an unthinkable happiness! 
And Lelechka grew feebler from hour to hour. 

All simulated tranquillity, so as not to frighten Serafima 
Aleksandrovna, but their masked faces only made her sad. 

Nothing made her so unhappy as the reiterations of 


HIDE AND SEEK 169 

Fedosya, uttered between sobs: “She hid herself and hid 
herself, our Lelechka!” 

But the thoughts of Serafima Aleksandrovna were con¬ 
fused, and she could not quite grasp what was happening. 

Fever was consuming Lelechka, and there were times 
when she lost consciousness and spoke in delirium. But 
when she returned to herself she bore her pain and her 
fatigue with gentle good nature; she smiled feebly at her 
mamochka, so that her mamochka should not see how much 
she suffered. Three days passed, torturing like a nightmare. 
Lelechka grew quite feeble. She did not know that she 
was dying. 

She glanced at her mother with her dimmed eyes, and 
lisped in a scarcely audible, hoarse voice: “Tiu-tiu, ma¬ 
mochka! Make tiu-tiu, mamochkal” 

Serafima Aleksandrovna hid her face behind the curtains 
near Lelechka’s bed. How tragic! 

“Mamochka!” called Lelechka in an almost inaudible 
voice. 

Lelechka’s mother bent over her, and Lelechka, her vision 
grown still more dim, saw her mother’s pale, despairing face 
for the last time. 

“A white mamochka!” whispered Lelechka. 

Mamochka's white face became blurred, and everything 
grew dark before Lelechka. She caught the edge of the bed¬ 
cover feebly with her hands and whispered: “Tiu-tiu!” 

Something rattled in her throat; Lelechka opened and 
again closed her rapidly paling lips, and died. 

Serafima Aleksandrovna was in dumb despair as she left 
Lelechka, and went out of the room. She met her husband. 

“Lelechka is dead,” she said in a quiet, dull voice. 

Sergey Modestovich looked anxiously at her pale face. He 
was struck by the strange stupor in her formerly animated 
handsome features. 


VII 

Lelechka was dressed, placed in a little coffin, and carried 
into the parlour. Serafima Aleksandrovna was standing by 
the coffin and looking dully at her dead child. Sergey Mode- 


170 


BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 


stovich went to his wife and, consoling her with cold, empty 
words, tried to draw her away from the coffin. Serafima 
Aleksandrovna smiled. 

“Go away,” she said quietly. “Lelechka is playing. 
She’ll be up in a minute.” 

“Sima, my dear, don’t agitate yourself,” said Sergey 
Modestovich in a whisper. “You must resign yourself to 
your fate.” 

“She’ll be up in a minute,” persisted Serafima Aleksan¬ 
drovna, her eyes fixed on the dead little girl. 

Sergey Modestovich looked round him cautiously: he was 
afraid of the unseemly and of the ridiculous. 

“Sima, don’t agitate yourself,” he repeated. “This would 
be a miracle, and miracles do not happen in the nineteenth 
century.” 

No sooner had he said these words than Sergey Mode¬ 
stovich felt their irrelevance to what had happened. He 
was confused and annoyed. 

He took his wife by the arm, and cautiously led her away 
from the coffin. She did not oppose him. 

Her face seemed tranquil and her eyes were dry. She 
went into the nursery and began to walk round the room, 
looking into those places where Lelechka used to hide her¬ 
self. She walked all about the room, and bent now and 
then to look under the table or under the bed, and kept on 
repeating cheerfully: “Where is my little one? Where is 
my Lelechka?” 

After she had walked round the room once she began to 
make her quest anew. Fedosya, motionless, with dejected 
face, sat in a corner, and looked frightened at her mistress; 
then she suddenly burst out sobbing, and she wailed loudly: 

“She hid herself, and hid herself, our Lelechka, our angelic 
little soul!” 

Serafima Aleksandrovna trembled, paused, cast a per¬ 
plexed look at Fedosya, began to weep, and left the nursery 
quietly. 

VIII 

Sergey Modestovich hurried the funeral. He saw that 
Serafima Aleksandrovna was terribly shocked by her sudden 


HIDE AND SEEK 


1 7 i 

misfortune, and as he feared for her reason he thought 
she would more readily be diverted and consoled when 
Lelechka was buried. 

Next morning Serafima Aleksandrovna dressed with par¬ 
ticular care—for Lelechka. When she entered the parlour 
there were several people between her and Lelechka. The 
priest and deacon paced up and down the room; clouds of 
blue smoke drifted in the air, and there was a smell of 
incense. There was an oppressive feeling of heaviness in 
Serafima Aleksandrovna’s head as she approached Lelechka. 
Lelechka lay there still and pale, and smiled pathetically. 
Serafima Aleksandrovna laid her cheek upon the edge of 
Lelechka’s coffin, and whispered: “Tiu-tiu y little one!” 

The little one did not reply. Then there was some kind 
of stir and confusion around Serafima Aleksandrovna; 
strange, unnecessary faces bent over her, some one held 
her—and Lelechka was carried away somewhere. 

Serafima Aleksandrovna stood up erect, sighed in a lost 
way, smiled, and called loudly: “Lelechka!” 

Lelechka was being carried out. The mother threw her¬ 
self after the coffin with despairing sobs, but she was held 
back. She sprang behind the door, through which Lelechka 
had passed, sat down there on the floor, and as she looked 
through the crevice, she cried out: “Lelechka, tiu-tiul” 

Then she put her head out from behind the door, and 
began to laugh. 

Lelechka was quickly carried away from her mother, and 
those who carried her seemed to run rather than to walk. 


DETHRONED 


By I. N. Potapenko 


ELL?” Captain Zarubkin’s wife called out impatiently 



vv to her husband, rising from the sofa and turning to 
face him as he entered. 

“He doesn’t know anything about it,” he replied indif¬ 
ferently, as if the matter were of no interest to him. Then 
he asked in a businesslike tone: “Nothing for me from 
the office?” 

“Why should I know? Am I your errand boy?” 

“How they dilly-dally! If only the package doesn’t come 
too late. It’s so important!” 

“Idiot!” 

“Who’s an idiot?” 

“You, with your indifference, your stupid egoism.” 

The captain said nothing. He was neither surprised nor 
insulted. On the contrary, the smile on his face was as 
though he had received a compliment. These wifely animad¬ 
versions, probably oft-heard, by no means interfered with 
his domestic peace. 

“It can’t be that the man doesn’t know when his wife 
is coming back home,” Mrs. Zarubkin continued excitedly. 
“She’s written to him every day of the four months that 
she’s been away. The postmaster told me so.” 

“Semyonov! Ho, Semyonov! Has any one from the 
office been here?” 

“I don’t know, your Excellency,” came in a loud, clear 
voice from back of the room. 

“Why don’t you know? Where have you been?” 

“I went to Abramka, your Excellency.” 

“The tailor again?” 

“Yes, your Excellency, the tailor Abramka.” 

The captain spat in annoyance. 

“And where is Krynka?” 


172 


DETHRONED 


173 


“He went to market, your Excellency.” 

“Was he told to go to market?” 

“Yes, your Excellency.” 

The captain spat again. 

“Why do you keep spitting? Such vulgar manners!” his 
wife cried angrily. “You behave at home like a drunken 
subaltern. You haven’t the least consideration for your 
wife. You are so coarse in your behaviour towards me! 
Do, please, go to your office.” 

“Semyonov.” 

“Your Excellency?” 

“If the package comes, please have it sent back to the 
office and say I’ve gone there. And listen! Some one must 
always be here. I won’t have everybody out of the house 
at the same time. Do you hear?” 

“Yes, your Excellency.” 

The captain put on his cap to go. In the doorway he 
turned and addressed his wife. 

“Please, Tasya, please don’t send all the servants on your 
errands at the same time. Something important may turn 
up, and then there’s nobody here to attend to it.” 

He went out, and his wife remained reclining in the sofa 
corner as if his plea were no concern of hers. But scarcely 
had he left the house, when she called out: 

“Semyonov, come here. Quick!” 

A bare-footed unshaven man in dark blue pantaloons and 
cotton shirt presented himself. His stocky figure and red 
face made a wholesome appearance. He was the Captain’s 
orderly. 

“At your service, your Excellency.” 

“Listen, Semyonov, you don’t seem to be stupid.” 

“I don’t know, your Excellency.” 

“For goodness’ sake, drop ‘your Excellency.’ I am not 
your superior officer.” 

“Yes, your Excel—” 

“Idiot!” 

But the lady’s manner toward the servant was far friend¬ 
lier than toward her husband. Semyonov had it in his 
power to perform important services for her, while the cap¬ 
tain had not come up to her expectations. 


174 


BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 


“Listen, Semyonov, how do you and the doctor’s men 
get along together? Are you friendly?” 

“Yes, your Excellency.” 

“Intolerable!” cried the lady, jumping up. “Stop using 
that silly title. Can’t you speak like a sensible man?” 

Semyonov had been standing in the stiff attitude of at¬ 
tention, with the palms of his hands at the seams of his 
trousers. Now he suddenly relaxed, and even wiped his nose 
with his fist. 

“That’s the way we are taught to do,” he said care¬ 
lessly, with a clownish grin. “The gentlemen, the officers, 
insist on it.” 

“Now, tell me, you are on good terms with the doctor’s 
men?” 

“You mean Podmar and Shuchok? Of course, we’re 
friends.” 

“Very well, then go straight to them and try to find out 
when Mrs. Shaldin is expected back. They ought to know. 
They must be getting things ready against her return— 
cleaning her bedroom and fixing it up. Do you understand? 
But be careful to find out right. Amd also be very careful 
not to let on for whom you are finding it out. Do you 
understand?’ 

“Of course, I understand.” 

“Well, then, go. But one more thing. Since you’re going 
out, you may as well stop at Abramka’s again and tell him 
to come here right away. You understand?” 

“But his Excellency gave me orders to stay at home,” 
said Semyonov, scratching himself behind his ears. 

“Please don’t answer back. Just do as I tell you. Go 
on, now.” 

“At your service.” And the orderly, impressed by the 
lady’s severe military tone, left the room. 

Mrs. Zarubkin remained reclining on the sofa for a while. 
Then she rose and walked up and down the room and finally 
went to her bedroom, where her two little daughters were 
playing in their nurse’s care. She scolded them a bit and 
returned to her former place on the couch. Her every 
movement betrayed great excitement. 


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Tatyana Grigoryevna Zarubkin was one of the most 

looked-up to ladies of the S-Regiment and even of the 

whole town of Chmyrsk, where the regiment was quartered. 
To be sure, you hardly could say that, outside the regiment, 
the town could boast any ladies at all. There were very 
respectable women, decent wives, mothers, daughters and 
widows of honourable citizens; but they all dressed in cotton 
and flannel, and on high holidays made a show of cheap 
Cashmere gowns over which they wore gay shawls with 
borders of wonderful arabesques. Their hats and other 
headgear gave not the faintest evidence of good taste. So 
they could scarcely be dubbed “ladies.” They were satis¬ 
fied to be called “women.” Each one of them, almost, had 
the name of her husband’s trade or position tacked to her 
name—Mrs. Grocer so-and-so, Mrs. Mayor so-and-so, Mrs. 
Milliner so-and-so, etc. Genuine ladies in the Russian so¬ 
ciety sense had never come to the town before the S- 

Regiment had taken up its quarters there; and it goes 
without saying that the ladies of the regiment had nothing 
in common, and therefore no intercourse with, the women 
of the town. They were so dissimilar that they were like 
creatures of a different species. 

There is no disputing that Tatyana Grigoryevna Zarub¬ 
kin was one of the most looked-up-to of the ladies. She 
invariably played the most important part at all the regi¬ 
mental affairs—the amateur theatricals, the social evenings, 
the afternoon teas. If the captain’s wife was not to be pres¬ 
ent, it was a foregone conclusion that the affair would not be 
a success. 

The most important point was that Mrs. Zarubkin had the 
untarnished reputation of being the best-dressed of all the 
ladies. She was always the most distinguished looking at 
the annual ball. Her gown for the occasion, ordered from 
Moscow, was always chosen with the greatest regard for her 
charms and defects, and it was always exquisitely beautiful. 
A new fashion could not gain admittance to the other ladies 
of the regiment except by way of the captain’s wife. Thanks 
to her good taste in dressing, the stately blonde was queen 
at all the balls and in all the salons of Chmyrsk. Another 
advantage of hers was that although she was nearly forty she 




iy6 


BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 


still looked fresh and youthful, so that the young officers 
were constantly hovering about her and paying her hom- 
age. 

November was a very lively month in the regiment’s cal¬ 
endar. It was on the tenth of November that the annual 
ball took place. The ladies, of course, spent their best 
efforts in preparation for this event. Needless to say that in 
these arduous activities, Abramka Stiftik, the ladies’ tailor, 
played a prominent role. He was the one man in Chmyrsk 
who had any understanding at all for the subtle art of the 
feminine toilet. Preparations had begun in his shop in 
August already. Within the last weeks his modest parlour— 
furnished with six shabby chairs placed about a round table, 
and a fly-specked mirror on the wall—the atmosphere heavy 
with a smell of onions and herring, had been filled from 
early morning to the evening hours with the most charming 
and elegant of the fairer sex. There was trying-on and dis¬ 
cussion of styles and selection of material. It was all very 
nerve-racking for the ladies. 

The only one who had never appeared in this parlour was 
the captain’s wife. That had been a thorn in Abramka’s 
flesh. He had spent days and nights going over in his 
mind how he could rid this lady of the, in his opinion, 
wretched habit of ordering her clothes from Moscow. For 
this ball, however, as she herself had told him, she had 
not ordered a dress but only material from out of town, 
from which he deduced that he was to make the gown for 
her. But there was only one week left before the ball, and 
still she had not come to him. Abramka was in a state 
of feverishness. He longed once to make a dress for Mrs. 
Zarubkin. It would add to his glory. Fie wanted to prove 
that he understood his trade just as well as any tailor in 
Moscow, and that it was quite superfluous for her to order 
her gowns outside of Chmyrsk. He would come out the 
triumphant competitor of Moscow. 

As each day passed and Mrs. Zarubkin did not appear in 
his shop, his nervousness increased. Finally she ordered a 
dressing-jacket from him—but not a word said of a ball 
gown. What was he to think of it? 

So, when Semyonov told him that Mrs. Zarubkin was ex- 


DETHRONED 


177 


pecting him at her home, it goes without saying that he 
instantly removed the dozen pins in his mouth, as he was 
trying on a customer’s dress, told one of his assistants to 
continue with the fitting, and instantly set off to call on the 
captain’s wife. In this case, it was not a question of a mere 
ball gown, but of the acquisition of the best customer in 
town. 

Although Abramka wore a silk hat and a suit in keeping 
with the silk hat, still he was careful not to ring at the 
front entrance, but always knocked at the back door. At 
another time when the captain’s orderly was not in the 
house—for the captain’s orderly also performed the duties 
of the captain’s cook—he might have knocked long and loud 
On other occasions a cannon might have been shot off right 
next to Tatyana Grigoryevna’s ears and she would not have 
lifted her fingers to open the door. But now she instantly 
caught the sound of the modest knocking and opened the 
back door herself for Abramka. 

“Oh!” she cried delightedly. “You, Abramka!” 

She really wanted to address him less familiarly, as was 
more befitting so dignified a man in a silk hat; but every¬ 
body called him “Abramka,” and he would have been very 
much surprised had he been honoured with his full name, 
Abram Srulevich Stiftik. So she thought it best to address 
him as the others did. 

Mr. “Abramka” was tall and thin. There was always a 
melancholy expression in his pale face. He had a little 
stoop, a long and very heavy greyish beard. He had been 
practising his profession for thirty years. Ever since his 
apprenticeship he had been called “Abramka,” which did 
not strike him as at all derogatory or unfitting. Even his 
shingle read: “Ladies’ Tailor: Abramka Stiftik”—the most 
valid proof that he deemed his name immaterial, but that 
the chief thing to him was his art. As a matter of fact, he 
had attained, if not perfection in tailoring, yet remarkable 

skill. To this all the ladies of the S- Regiment could 

attest with conviction. 

Abramka removed his silk hat, stepped into the kitchen, 
and said gravely, with profound feeling: 

“Mrs. Zarubkin, I am entirely at your service.” 



i7» 


BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 


“Come into the reception room. I have something very 
important to speak to you about.” 

Abramka followed in silence. He stepped softly on tip¬ 
toe, as if afraid of waking some one. 

“Sit down, Abramka, listen—but give me your word of 
honour, you won’t tell any one?” Tatyana Grigoryevna be¬ 
gan, reddening a bit. She was ashamed to have to let the 
tailor Abramka into her secret, but since there was no get¬ 
ting around it, she quieted herself and in an instant had 
regained her ease. 

“I don’t know what you are speaking of, Mrs. Zarubkin,” 
Abramka rejoined. He assumed a somewhat injured man¬ 
ner. “Have you ever heard of Abramka ever babbling any¬ 
thing out? You certainly know that in my profession— 
you know everybody has some secret to be kept.” 

“Oh, you must have misunderstood me, Abramka. 
What sort of secrets do you mean?” 

“Well, one lady is a little bit one-sided, another lady”— 
he pointed to his breast—“is not quite full enough, another 
lady has scrawny arms—such things as that have to be cov¬ 
ered up or filled out or laced in, so as to look better. That 
is where our art comes in. But we are in duty bound not to 
say anything about it.” 

Tatyana Grigoryevna smiled. 

“Well, I can assure you I am all right that way. There 
is nothing about me that needs to be covered up or filled 
out.” 

“Oh, as if I didn’t know that! Everybody knows that 
Mrs. Zarubkin’s figure is perfect,” Abramka cried, trying 
to flatter his new customer. 

Mrs. Zarubkin laughed and made up her mind to remem¬ 
ber “Everybody knows that Mrs. Zarubkin’s figure is per¬ 
fect.” Then she said: 

“You know that the ball is to take place in a week.” 

“Yes, indeed, Mrs. Zarubkin, in only one week; unfor¬ 
tunately, only one week,” replied Abramka, sighing. 

“But you remember your promise to make my dress for 
me for the ball this time?” 

“Mrs. Zarubkin,” Abramka cried, laying his hand on his 
heart. “Have I said that I was net willing to make it? 


DETHRONED 


179 


No, indeed, I said it must be made and made right—for 
Mrs. Zarubkin, it must be better than for any one else. 
That’s the way I feel about it.” 

“Splendid! Just what I wanted to know.” 

“But why don’t you show me your material? Why 
don’t you say to me, ‘Here, Abramka, here is the stuff, 
make a dress?’ Abramka would work on it day and 
night.” 

“Ahem, that’s just it—I can’t order it. That is where 
the trouble comes in. Tell me, Abramka, what is the short¬ 
est time you need for making the dress? Listen, the very 
shortest?” 

Abramka shrugged his shoulders. 

“Well, is a week too much for a ball dress such as you will 
want? It’s got to be sewed, it can’t be pasted together. 
You, yourself, know that, Mrs. Zarubkin.” 

“But supposing I order it only three days before the 
bail?” 

Abramka started. 

“Only three days before the ball? A ball dress? Am I 
a god, Mrs. Zarubkin? I am nothing but the ladies’ tailor, 
Abramka Stiftik.” 

“Well, then you are a nice tailor!” said Tatyana Gri- 
goryevna, scornfully. “In Moscow they made a ball dress 
for me in two days.” 

Abramka jumped up as if at a shot, and beat his 
breast. 

“Is that so? Then I say, Mrs. Zarubkin,” he cried pa¬ 
thetically, “if they made a ball gown for you in Moscow 
in two days, very well, then I will make a ball gown for you, 
if I must, in one day. I will neither eat nor sleep, and I 
won’t let my help off either for one minute. How does that 
suit you?” 

“Sit down, Abramka, thank you very much. I hope I 
shall not have to put such a strain on you. It really does 
not depend upon me, otherwise I should have ordered the 
dress from you long ago.” 

“It doesn’t depend upon you? Then upon whom does it 
depend?” 

“Ahem, it depends upon—but now, Abramka, remember 


i8o BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 

this is just between you and me—it depends upon Mrs. 
Shaldin.” 

“Upon Mrs. Shaldin, the doctor’s wife? Why she isn’t 
even here.” 

“That’s just it. That is why I have to wait. How is it 
that a clever man like you, Abramka, doesn’t grasp the 
situation?” 

“Hm, hm! Let me see.” Abramka racked his brains for 
a solution of the riddle. How could it be that Mrs. Shaldin, 
who was away, should have anything to do with Mrs. 
Zarubkin’s order for a gown? No, that passed his compre¬ 
hension. 

“She certainly will get back in time for the ball,” said 
Mrs. Zarubkin, to give him a cue. 

“Well, yes.” 

“And certainly will bring a dress back with her.” 

“Certainly!” 

“A dress from abroad, something we have never seen here 
—something highly original.” 

“Mrs. Zarubkin!” Abramka cried, as if a truth of tre¬ 
mendous import had been revealed to him. “Mrs. Zarub¬ 
kin, I understand. Why certainly! Yes, but that will be 
pretty hard.” 

“That’s just it.” 

Abramka reflected a moment, then said: 

“I assure you, Mrs. Zarubkin, you need not be a bit un¬ 
easy. I will make a dress for you that will be just as grand 
as the one from abroad. I assure you, your dress will be 
the most elegant one at the ball, just as it always has been. 
I tell you, my name won’t be Abramka Stiftik if—” 

His eager asseverations seemed not quite to satisfy the 
captain’s wife. Her mind was not quite set at ease. She 
interrupted him. 

“But the style, Abramka, the style! You can’t possibly 
guess what the latest fashion is abroad.” 

“Why shouldn’t I know what the latest fashion is, Mrs. 
Zarubkin? In Kiev I have a friend who publishes fashion- 
plates. I will telegraph to him, and he will immediately send 
me pictures of the latest French models. The telegram 
will cost only eighty cents, Mrs. Zarubkin, and I swear 


DETHRONED 


181 


to you I will copy any dress he sends. Mrs. Shaldin can’t 
possibly have a dress like that.” 

“All very well and good, and that’s what we’ll do. Still 
we must wait until Mrs. Shaldin comes back. Don’t you 
see, Abramka, I must have exactly the same style that she 
has? Can’t you see, so that nobody can say that she is in 
the latest fashion?” 

At this point Semyonov entered the room cautiously. He 
was wearing the oddest-looking jacket and the captain’s old 
boots. His hair was rumpled, and his eyes were shining 
suspiciously. There was every sign that he had used the 
renewal of friendship with the doctor’s men as a pretext for 
a booze. 

“I had to stand them some brandy, your Excellency,” he 
said saucily, but catching his mistress’s threatening look, he 
lowered his head guiltily. 

“Idiot,” she yelled at him, “face about. Be off with you 
to the kitchen.” 

In his befuddlement, Semyonov had not noticed Abram- 
ka’s presence. Now he became aware of him, faced about 
and retired to the kitchen sheepishly. 

“What an impolite fellow,” said Abramka reproachfully. 

“Oh, you wouldn’t believe—” said the captain’s wife, but 
instantly followed Semyonov into the kitchen. 

Semyonov aware of his awful misdemeanour, tried to 
stand up straight and give a report. 

“She will come back, your Excellency, day after to-mor¬ 
row toward evening. She sent a telegram.” 

“Is that true now?” 

“I swear it’s true. Shuchok saw it himself.” 

“All right, very good. You will get something for this.” 

“Yes, your Excellency.” 

“Silence, you goose. Go on, set the table.” 

Abramka remained about ten minutes longer with the cap¬ 
tain’s wife, and on leaving said: 

“Let me assure you once again, Mrs. Zarubkin, you 
needn’t worry; just select the style, and I will make a gown 
for you that the best tailor in Paris can’t beat.” He 
pressed his hand to his heart in token of his intention to do 
everything in his power for Mrs. Zarubkin. 


BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 


182 


It was seven o’clock in the evening. Mrs. Shaldin and 
her trunk had arrived hardly half an hour before, yet the 
captain’s wife was already there paying a visit; which was 
a sign of the warm friendship that existed between the two 
women. They kissed each other and fell to talking. The 
doctor, a tall man of forty-five, seemed discomfited by the 
visit, and passed unfriendly side glances at his guest. He 
had hoped to spend that evening undisturbed with his wife, 
and he well knew that when the ladies of the regiment came 
to call upon each other “for only a second,” it meant a 
whole evening of listening to idle talk. 

“You wouldn’t believe me, dear, how bored I was the 
whole time you were away, how I longed for you, 
Natalie Semyonovna. But you probably never gave us 
a thought.” 

“Oh, how can you say anything like that. I was thinking 
of you every minute, every second. If I hadn’t been obliged 
to finish the cure, I should have returned long ago. No 
matter how beautiful it may be away from heme, still the 
only place to live is among those that are near and dear 
to you.” 

These were only the preliminary soundings. They lasted 
with variations for a quarter of an hour. First Mrs. Shaldin 
narrated a few incidents of the trip, then Mrs. Zarubkin 
gave a report of some of the chief happenings in the life 
of the regiment. When the conversation was in full swing, 
and the samovar was singing on the table, and the pan¬ 
cakes were spreading their appetising odour, the captain’s 
wife suddenly cried: 

“I wonder what the fashions are abroad now. I say, 
you must have feasted your eyes on them!” 

Mrs. Shaldin simply replied with a scornful gesture. 

“Other people may like them, but I don’t care for them 
one bit. I am glad we here don’t get to see them until a 
year later. You know, Tatyana Grigoryevna, you some¬ 
times see the ugliest styles.” 

“Really?” asked the captain’s wife eagerly, her eyes 
gleaming with curiosity. The great moment of complete 
revelation seemed to have arrived. 


DETHRONED 


183 

“Perfectly hideous, I tell you. Just imagine, you know 
how nice the plain skirts were. Then why change them? 
But no, to be in style now, the skirts have to be draped. 
Why? It is just a sign of complete lack of imagination. 
And in Lyons they got out a new kind of silk—but that is 
still a French secret.” 

“Why a secret? The silk is certainly being worn al¬ 
ready?” 

“Yes, one does see it being worn already, but when it 
was first manufactured, the greatest secret was made of it. 
They were afraid the Germans would imitate. You under¬ 
stand?” 

“Oh, but what is the latest style?” 

“I really can’t explain it to you. All I know is, it is 
something awful.” 

“She can’t explain! That means she doesn’t want to ex¬ 
plain. Oh, the cunning one. What a sly look she has in 
her eyes.” So thought the captain’s wife. From the very 
beginning of the conversation, the two warm friends, it need 
scarcely be said, were mutually distrustful. Each had the 
conviction that everything the other said was to be taken in 
the very opposite sense. They were of about the same age, 
Mrs. Shaldin possibly one or two years younger than Mrs. 
Zarubkin. Mrs. Zarubkin was rather plump, and had heavy 
light hair. Her appearance was blooming. Mrs. Shaldin 
was slim, though well proportioned. She was a brunette 
with a pale complexion and large dark eyes. They were 
two types of beauty very likely to divide the gentlemen of 
the regiment into two camps of admirers. But women are 
never content with halves. Mrs. Zarubkin wanted to see 
all the officers of the regiment at her feet, and so did Mrs. 
Shaldin. It naturally led to great rivalry between the two 
women, of which they were both conscious, though they al¬ 
ways had the friendliest smiles for each other. 

Mrs. Shaldin tried to give a different turn to the conver¬ 
sation. 

“Do you think the ball will be interesting this year?” 

“Why should it be interesting?” rejoined the captain’s 
wife scornfully. “Always the'same people, the same old 
humdrum jog-trot.” 


BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 


184 

“I suppose the ladies have been besieging our poor 
Abramka?” 

“I really can’t tell you. So far as I am concerned, I have 
scarcely looked at what he made for me.” 

“Hm, how’s that? Didn’t you order your dress from 
Moscow again?” 

“No, it really does not pay. I am sick of the bother of 
it all. Why all that trouble? For whom? Our officers 
don’t care a bit how one dresses. They haven’t the least 
taste.” 

“Hm, there’s something back of that,” thought Mrs. Shal- 
din. 

The captain’s wife continued with apparent indifference: 

“I can guess what a gorgeous dress you had made abroad. 
Certainly in the latest fashion?” 

“I?” Mrs. Shaldin laughed innocently. “How could I get 
the time during my cure to think of a dress? As a matter 
of fact, I completely forgot the ball, thought of it at the 
last moment, and bought the first piece of goods I laid my 
hands on.” 

“Pink?” 

“Oh, no. How can you say pink!” 

“Light blue, then?” 

“You can’t call it exactly light blue. It is a very unde¬ 
fined sort of colour. I really wouldn’t know what to call it.” 

“But it certainly must have some sort of a shade?” 

“You may believe me or not if you choose, but really I 
don’t know. It’s a very indefinite shade.” 

“Is it Sura silk?” 

“No, I can’t bear Sura. It doesn’t keep the folds well.” 

“I suppose it is crepe de Chine?” 

“Heavens, no! Crepe de Chine is much too expensive 
for me.” 

“Then what can it be?” 

“Oh, wait a minute, what is the name of that goods? 
You know there are so many funny new names now. They 
don’t make any sense.” 

“Then show me your dress, dearest. Do please show me 
your dress.” 

Mrs. Shaldin seemed to be highly embarrassed. 


DETHRONED 


185 

“I am so sorry I can’t. It is way down at the bottom 
of the trunk. There is the trunk. You see yourself I 
couldn’t unpack it now.” 

The trunk, close to the wall, was covered with oil cloth 
and tied tight with heavy cords. The captain’s wife de¬ 
voured it with her eyes. She would have liked to see 
through and through it. She had nothing to say in reply, 
because it certainly was impossible to ask her friend, tired 
out from her recent journey, to begin to unpack right 
away and take out all her things just to show her her new 
dress. Yet she could not tear her eyes away from the 
trunk. There was a magic in it that held her enthralled. 
Had she been alone she would have begun to unpack it 
herself, nor even have asked the help of a servant to undo 
the knots. Now there was nothing left for her but to 
turn her eyes sorrowfully away from the fascinating object 
and take up another topic of conversation to which she 
would be utterly indifferent. But she couldn’t think of any¬ 
thing else to talk about. Mrs. Shaldin must have prepared 
herself beforehand. She must have suspected something. 
So now Mrs. Zarubkin pinned her last hope to Abramka’s 
inventiveness. She glanced at the clock. 

“Dear me,” she exclaimed, as if surprised at the lateness 
of the hour. “I must be going. I don’t want to disturb you 
any longer either, dearest. You must be very tired. I 
hope you rest well.” 

She shook hands with Mrs. Shaldin, kissed her and left. 

Abramka Stiftik had just taken off his coat and was 
doing some ironing in his shirt sleeves, when a peculiar 
figure appeared in his shop. It was that of a stocky orderly 
in a well-worn uniform without buttons and old galoshes 
instead of boots. His face was gloomy-looking and was 
covered with a heavy growth of hair. Abramka knew this 
figure well. It seemed always just to have been awakened 
from the deepest sleep. 

“Ah, Shuchok, what do you want?” 

“Mrs. Shaldin would like you to call upon her,” said 
Shuchok. He behaved as if he had come on a terribly 
serious mission. 


i86 


BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 


“Ah, that’s so, your lady has come back. I heard about 
it. You see I am very busy. Still you may tell her I am 
coming right away. I just want to finish ironing Mrs. 
Konopotkin’s dress.” 

Abramka simply wanted to keep up appearances, as al¬ 
ways when he was sent for. But his joy'at the summons 
to Mrs. Shaldin was so great that to the astonishment of 
his helpers and Shuchok he left immediately. 

He found Mrs. Shaldin alone. She had not slept well the 
two nights before and had risen late that morning. Her 
husband had left long before for the Military Hospital. 
She was sitting beside her open trunk taking her things 
out very carefully. 

“How do you do, Mrs. Shaldin? Welcome back to 
Chmyrsk. I congratulate you on your happy arrival.” 

“Oh, how do you do, Abramka?” said Mrs. Shaldin de¬ 
lightedly; “we haven’t seen each other for a long time, have 
we? I was rather homesick for you.” 

“Oh, Mrs. Shaldin, you must have had a very good time 
abroad. But what do you need me for? You certainly 
brought a dress back with you?” 

“Abramka always comes in handy,” said Mrs. Shaldin 
jestingly. “We ladies of the regiment are quite helpless 
without Abramka. Take a seat.” 

Abramka seated himself. He felt much more at ease 
in Mrs. Shaldin’s home than in Mrs. Zarubkin’s. Mrs. Shal¬ 
din did not order her clothes from Moscow. She was a 
steady customer of his. In this room he had many a time 
circled about the doctor’s wife with a yard measure, pins, 
chalk and scissors, had kneeled down beside her, raised 
himself to his feet, bent over again and stood puzzling 
over some difficult problem of dressmaking—how low 
to cut the dress out at the neck, how long to make 
the train, how wide the hem, and so on. None of the 
ladies of the regiment ordered as much from him as Mrs. 
Shaldin. Her grandmother would send her material from 
Kiev or the doctor would go on a professional trip to Cherni¬ 
gov and always bring some goods back with him; or some¬ 
times her aunt in Voronesh would make her a gift of some 
silk. 


DETHRONED 


187 

“Abramka is always ready to serve Mrs. Shaldin first,” 
said the tailor, though seized with a little pang, as if bitten 
by a guilty conscience. 

“Are you sure you are telling the truth? Is Abramka 
always to be depended upon? Eh, is he?” She looked at 
him searchingly from beneath drooping lids. 

“What a question,” rejoined Abramka. His face quivered 
slightly. His feeling of discomfort was waxing. “Has 
Abramka ever-” 

“Oh, things can happen. Rut, all right, never mind. I 
brought a dress along with me. I had to have it made in a 
great hurry, and there is just a little more to be done on it. 
Now if I give you this dress to finish, can I be sure that 
you positively won’t tell another soul how it is made?” 

“Mrs. Shaldin, oh, Mrs. Shaldin,” said Abramka re¬ 
proachfully. Nevertheless, the expression of his face was 
not so reassuring as usual. 

“You give me your word of honour?” 

“Certainly! My name isn’t Abramka Stiftik if I-” 

“Well, all right, I will trust you. But be careful. You 
know of whom you must be careful?” 

“Who is that, Mrs. Shaldin?” 

“Oh, you know very well whom I mean. No, you needn’t 
put your hand on your heart. She was here to see me 
yesterday and tried in every way she could to find out 
how my dress is made. But she couldn’t get it out of 
me.” Abramka sighed. Mrs. Shaldin seemed to suspect his 
betrayal. “I am right, am I not? She has not had her 
dress made yet, has she? She waited to see my dress, didn’t 
she? And she told you to copy the style, didn’t she?” Mrs. 
Shaldin asked with honest naivete. “But I warn you, 
Abramka, if you give away the least little thing about my 
dress, then all is over between you and me. Remember 
that.” 

Abramka’s hand went to his heart again, and the gesture 
carried the same sense of conviction as of old. 

“Mrs. Shaldin, how can you speak like that?” 

“Wait a moment.” 

Mrs. Shaldin left the room. About ten minutes passed 
during which Abramka had plenty of time to reflect. How 




i88 


BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 


could he have given the captain’s wife a promise like that 
so lightly? What was the captain’s wife to him as com¬ 
pared with the doctor’s wife? Mrs. Zarubkin had never 
given him a really decent order—just a few things for the 
house and some mending. Supposing he were now to per¬ 
form this great service for her, would that mean that he 
could depend upon her for the future? Was any woman 
to be depended upon? She would wear this dress out and 
go back to ordering her clothes from Moscow again. But 
Mrs. Shaldin, she was very different. He could forgive 
her having brought this one dress along from abroad. 
What woman in Russia would have refrained, when abroad, 
from buying a new dress? Mrs. Shaldin would continue to 
be his steady customer all the same. 

The door opened. Abramka rose involuntarily, and 
clasped his hands in astonishment. 

“Well,” he exclaimed rapturously, “that is a dress, that 
is- My, my!” He was so stunned he could find noth¬ 

ing more to say. And how charming Mrs. Shaldin looked 
in her wonderful gown! Her tall slim figure seemed to have 
been made for it. What simple yet elegant lines. At first 
glance you would think it was nothing more than an or¬ 
dinary house-gown, but only at first glance. If you looked 
at it again, you could tell right away that it met all the 
requirements of a fancy ball-gown. What struck Abramka 
most was that it had no waist line, that it did not consist 
of bodice and skirt. That was strange. It was just caught 
lightly together under the bosom, which it brought out in 
relief. Draped over the whole was a sort of upper gar¬ 
ment of exquisite old-rose lace embroidered with large silk 
flowers, which fell from the shoulders and broadened out in 
bold superb lines. The dress was cut low and edged with 
a narrow strip of black down around the bosom, around 
the bottom of the lace drapery, and around the hem of the 
skirt. A wonderful fan of feathers to match the down 
edging gave the finishing touch. 

“Well, how do you like it, Abramka!” asked Mrs. Shaldin 
with a triumphant smile. 

“Glorious, glorious! I haven’t the words at my command. 
What a dress! No, I couldn’t make a dress like that. And 



DETHRONED 189 

how beautifully it fits you, as if you had been bom in it, 
Mrs. Shaldin. What do you call the style?” 

‘‘Empire.” 

“Ampeer?” he queried. “Is that a new style? Well, well, 
what people don’t think of. Tailors like us might just as 
well throw our needles and scissors away.” 

“Now, listen, Abramka, I wouldn’t have shown it to you 
if there were not this sewing to be done on it. You are 
the only one who will have seen it before the ball. I am not 
even letting my husband look at it.” 

“Oh, Mrs. Shaldin, you can rely upon me as upon a rock. 
But after the ball may I copy it?” 

“Oh, yes, after the ball copy it as much as you please, 
but not now, not for anything in the world.” 

There were no doubts in Abramka’s mind when he left 
the doctor’s house. He had arrived at his decision. That 
superb creation had conquered him. It would be a piece of 
audacity on his part, he felt, even to think of imitating such 
a gown. Why, it was not a gown. It was a dream, a fan¬ 
tastic vision—without a bodice, without puffs or frills or 
tawdry trimmings of any sort. Simplicity itself and yet so 
chic. 

Back in his shop he opened the package of fashion-plates 
that had just arrived from Kiev. He turned the pages and 
stared in astonishment. What was that? Could he trust 
his eyes? An Empire gown. There it was, with the broad 
voluptuous drapery of lace hanging from the shoulders and 
the edging of down. Almost exactly the same thing as 
Mrs. Shaldin’s. 

He glanced up and saw Semyonov outside the window. 
He had certainly come to fetch him to the captain’s wife, 
who must have ordered him to watch the tailor’s move¬ 
ments, and must have learned that he had just been at 
Mrs. Shaldin’s. Semyonov entered and told him his mis¬ 
tress wanted to see him right away. 

Abramka slammed the fashion magazine shut as if afraid 
that Semyonov might catch a glimpse of the new Empire 
fashion and give the secret away. 

“I will come immediately,” he said crossly. 

He picked up his fashion plates, put the yard measure 


BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 


190 

in his pocket, rammed his silk hat sorrowfully on his head 
and set off for the captain’s house. He found Mrs. Zarub- 
kin pacing the room excitedly, greeted her, but carefully 
avoided meeting her eyes. 

“Well, what did you find out?” 

“Nothing, Mrs. Zarubkin,” said Abramka dejectedly. 
“Unfortunately I couldn’t find out a thing.” 

“Idiot! I have no patience with you. Where are the 
fashion plates?” 

“Here, Mrs. Zarubkin.” 

She turned the pages, looked at one picture after the 
other, and suddenly her eyes shone and her cheeks red¬ 
dened. 

“Oh, Empire! The very thing. Empire is the very lat¬ 
est. Make this one for me,” she cried commandingly. 

Abramka turned pale. 

“Ampeer, Mrs. Zarubkin? I can’t make that Ampeer 
dress for you,” he murmured. 

“Why not?” asked the captain’s wife, giving him a search¬ 
ing look. 

“Because—because—I can’t.” 

“Oh—h—h, you can’t? You know why you can’t. Be¬ 
cause that is the style of Mrs. Shaldin’s dress. So that 
is the reliability you boast so about? Great!” 

“Mrs. Zarubkin, I will make any other dress you choose, 
but it is absolutely impossible for me to make this one.” 

“I don’t need your fashion plates, do you hear me? 
Get out of here, and don’t ever show your face again.” 

“Mrs. Zarubkin, I-” 

“Get out of here,” repeated the captain’s wife, quite 
beside herself. 

The poor tailor stuck his yard measure, which he had 
already taken out, back into his pocket and left. 

Half an hour later the captain’s wife was entering a train 
for Kiev, carrying a large package which contained mate¬ 
rial for a dress. The captain had accompanied her to the 
station with a pucker in his forehead. That was five days 
before the ball. 

At the ball two expensive Empire gowns stood out con- 



DETHRONED 


191 

spicuously from among the more or less elegant gowns which 
had been finished in the shop of Abramka Stiftik, Ladies’ 
Tailor. The one gown adorned Mrs. Shaldin’s figure, the 
other the figure of the captain’s wife. 

Mrs. Zarubkin had bought her gown ready made at Kiev, 
and had returned only two hours before the beginning of 
the ball. She had scarcely had time to dress. Perhaps 
it would have been better had she not appeared at this 
one of the annual balls, had she not taken that 
fateful trip to Kiev. For in comparison with the make 
and style of Mrs. Shaldin’s dress, which had been brought 
abroad, hers was like the botched imitation of an amateur. 

That was evident to everybody, though the captain’s 
wife had her little group of partisans, who maintained with 
exaggerated eagerness that she looked extraordinarily fas¬ 
cinating in her dress and Mrs. Shaldin still could not rival 
her. But there was no mistaking it, there was little justice 
in this contention. Everybody knew better; what was worst 
of all, Mrs. Zarubkin herself knew better. Mrs. Shaldin’s 
triumph was complete. 

The two ladies gave each other the same friendly smiles 
as always, but one of them was experiencing the fine dis¬ 
dain and the derision of the conqueror, while the other 
was burning inside with the furious resentment of a de¬ 
throned goddess—goddess of the annual ball. 

From that time on Abramka cautiously avoided passing 
the captain’s house. 


THE SERVANT 

By S. T. Semyonov 

I 


ERASIM returned to Moscow just at a time when it 



was hardest to find work, a short while before Christ¬ 
mas, when a man sticks even to a poor job in the expectation 
of a present. For three weeks the peasant lad had been 
going about in vain seeking a position. 

He stayed with relatives and friends from his village, and 
although he had not yet suffered great want, it disheart¬ 
ened him that he, a strong young man, should go without 
work. 

Gerasim had lived in Moscow from early boyhood. When 
still a mere child, he had gone to work in a brewery as 
bottle-washer, and later as a lower servant in a house. In 
the last two years he had been in a merchant’s employ, and 
would still have held that position, had he not been sum¬ 
moned back to his village for military duty. However, 
he had not been drafted. It seemed dull to him in the vil¬ 
lage, he was not used to the country life, so he decided 
he would rather count the stones in Moscow than stay there. 

Every minute it was getting to be more and more irk¬ 
some for him to be tramping the streets in idleness. Not a 
stone did he leave unturned in his efforts to secure any 
sort of work. He plagued all of his acquaintances, he even 
held up people on the street and asked them if they knew 
of a situation—all in vain. 

Finally Gerasim could no longer bear being a burden on 
his people. Some of them were annoyed by his coming to 
them; and others had suffered unpleasantness from their 
masters on his account. He was altogether at a loss what 
to do. Sometimes he would go a whole day without eating. 


THE SERVANT 


*93 


II 

One day Gerasim betook himself to a friend from his 
village, who lived at the extreme outer edge of Moscow, 
near Sokolnik. The man was coachman to a merchant by 
the name of Sharov, in whose service he had been for many 
years. He had ingratiated himself with his master, so that 
Sharov trusted him absolutely and gave every sign of hold¬ 
ing him in high favour. It was the man’s glib tongue, 
chiefly, that had gained him his master’s confidence. He 
told on all the servants, and Sharov valued him for it. 

Gerasim approached and greeted him. The coachman 
gave his guest a proper reception, served him with tea and 
something to eat, and asked him how he was doing. 

“Very badly, Yegor Danilych,” said Gerasim. “I’ve been 
without a job for weeks.” 

“Didn’t you ask your old employer to take you back?” 
“I did.” 

“He wouldn’t take you again?” 

“The position was filled already.” 

“That’s it. That’s the way you young fellows are. You 
serve your employers so-so, and when you leave your jobs, 
you usually have muddied up the way back to them. You 
ought to serve your masters so that they will think a lot 
of you, and when you come again, they will not refuse you, 
but rather dismiss the man who has taken your place.” 

“How can a man do that? In these days there aren’t any 
employers like that, and we aren’t exactly angels, either.” 

“What’s the use of wasting words? I just want to tell 
you about myself. If for some reason or other I should 
ever have to leave this place and go home, not only would 
Mr. Sharov, if I came back, take me on again without a 
word, but he would be glad to, too.” 

Gerasim sat there downcast. He saw his friend was 
boasting, and it occurred to him to gratify him. 

“I know it,” he said. “But it’s hard to find men like 
you, Yegor Danilych. If you were a poor worker, your 
master would not have kept you twelve years.” 

Yegor smiled. He liked the praise. 


194 


BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 


“That’s it,” he said. “If you were to live and serve as 
I do, you wouldn’t be out of work for months and months.” 

Gerasim made no reply. 

Yegor was summoned to his master. 

“Wait a moment,” he said to Gerasim. “I’ll be right 
back.” 

“Very well.” 

Ill 

Yegor came back and reported that inside of half an hour 
he would have to have the horses harnessed, ready to drive 
his master to town. He lighted his pipe and took several 
turns in the room. Then he came to a halt in front of 
Gerasim. 

“Listen, my boy,” he said, “if you want, I’ll ask my 
master to take you as a servant here.” 

“Does he need a man?” 

“We have one, but he’s not much good. He’s getting old, 
and it’s very hard for him to do the work. It’s lucky for 
us that the neighbourhood isn’t a lively one and the police 
don’t make a fuss about things being kept just so, else the 
old man couldn’t manage to keep the place clean enough 
for them.” 

“Oh, if you can, then please do say a word for me, Yegor 
Danilych. I’ll pray for you all my life. I can’t stand 
being without work any longer.” 

“All right, I’ll speak for you. Come again to-morrow, and 
in the meantime take this ten-kopek piece. It may come 
in handy.” 

“Thanks, Yegor Danilych. Then you will try for me? 
Please do me the favour.” 

“All right. I’ll try for you.” 

Gerasim left, and Yegor harnessed up his horses. Then 
he put on his coachman’s habit, and drove up to the front 
door. Mr. Sharov stepped out of the house, seated him¬ 
self in the sleigh, and the horses galloped off. He attended 
to his business in town and returned home. Yegor, observ¬ 
ing that his master was in a good humour, said to him: 

“Yegor Fiodorych, I have a favour to ask of you.” 

“What is it?” 


THE SERVANT 


i 95 

“There’s a young man from my village here, a good boy. 
He’s without a job.” 

“Well?” 

“Wouldn’t you take him?” 

“What do I want him for?” 

“Use him as man of all work round the place.” 

“How about Polikarpych?” 

“What good is he? It’s about time you dismissed him.” 

“That wouldn’t be fair. He has been with me so many 
years. I can’t let him go just so, without any cause.” 

“Supposing he has worked for you for years. He didn’t 
work for nothing. He got paid for it. He’s certainly saved 
up a few dollars for his old age.” 

“Saved up! How could he? From what? He’s not 
alone in the world. He has a wife to support, and she has 
to eat and drink also.” 

“His wife earns money, too, at day’s work as char¬ 
woman.” 

“A lot she could have made! Enough for kvas” 

“Why should you care about Polikarpych and his wife? 
To tell you the truth, he’s a very poor servant. Why should 
you throw your money away on him? He never shovels the 
snow away on time, or does anything right. And when it 
comes his turn to be night watchman, he slips away at 
least ten times a night. It’s too cold for him. You’ll 
see, some day, because of him, you will have trouble with 
the police. The quarterly inspector will descend on us, 
and it won’t be so agreeable for you to be responsible for 
Polikarpych.” 

“Still, it’s pretty rough. He’s been with me fifteen years. 
And to treat him that way in his old age—it would be a 
sin.” 

“A sin! Why, what harm would you be doing him? 
He won’t starve. He’ll go to the almshouse. It will be 
better for him, too, to be quiet in his old age.” 

Sharov reflected. 

“All right,” he said finally. “Bring your friend here. I’ll 
see what I can do.” 

“Do take him, sir. I’m so sorry for him. He’s a good 
boy, and he’s been without work for such a long time. I 


196 


BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 


know he’ll do his work well and serve you faithfully. On 
account of having to report for military duty, he lost his 
last position. If it hadn’t been for that, his master would 
never have let him go.” 


IV 

The next evening Gerasim came again and asked: 

“Well, could you do anything for me?” 

“Something, I believe. First let’s have some tea. Then 
we’ll go see my master.” 

Even tea had no allurements for Gerasim. He was eager 
for a decision; but under the compulsion of politeness to 
his host, he gulped down two glasses of tea, and then they 
betook themselves to Sharov; 

Sharov asked Gerasim where he had lived before and 
what work he could do. Then he told him he was prepared 
to engage him as man of all work, and he should come 
back the next day ready to take the place. 

Gerasim was fairly stunned by the great stroke of for¬ 
tune. So overwhelming was his joy that his legs would 
scarcely carry him. He went to the coachman’s room, and 
Yegor said to him: 

“Well, my lad, see to it that you do your work right, 
so that I shan’t have to be ashamed of you. You know 
what masters are like. If you go wrong once, they’ll be 
at you forever after with their fault-finding, and never give 
you peace.” 

“Don’t worry about that, Yegor Danilych.” 

“Well—well.” 

Gerasim took leave, crossing the yard to go out by the 
gate. Polikarpych’s rooms gave on the yard, and a broad 
beam of light from the window fell across Gerasim’s way. 
He was curious to get a glimpse of his future home, but 
the panes were all frosted over, and it was impossible to 
peep through. However, he could hear what the people in¬ 
side were saying. 

“What will we do now?” was said in a woman’s voice. 

“I don’t know, I don’t know,” a man, undoubtedly 
Polikarpych, replied. “Go begging, I suppose.” 


THE SERVANT 


197 


“That’s all we can do. There’s nothing else left,” said 
the woman. “Oh, we poor people, what a miserable life we 
lead. We work and work from early morning till late at 
night, day after day, and when we get old, then it’s, ‘Away 
with you!’ ” 

“What can we do? Our master is not one of us. It 
wouldn’t be worth the while to say much to him about 
it. He cares only for his own advantage.” 

“All the masters are so mean. They don’t think of 
any one but themselves. It doesn’t occur to them that we 
work for them honestly and faithfully for years, and use 
up our best strength in their service. They’re afraid to 
keep us a year longer, even though we’ve got all the strength 
we need to do their work. If we weren’t strong enough, 
we’d go of our own accord.” 

“The master’s not so much to blame as his coachman. 
Yegor Danilych wants to get a good position for his friend.” 

“Yes, he’s a serpent. He knows how to wag his tongue. 
You wait, you foul-mouthed beast, I’ll get even with you. 
I’ll go straight to the master and tell him how the fellow 
deceives him, how he steals the hay and fodder. I’ll put 
it down in writing, and he can convince himself how the 
fellow lies about us all.” 

“Don’t, old woman. Don’t sin.” 

“Sin? Isn’t what I said all true? I know to a dot what 
I’m saying, and I mean to tell it straight out to the master. 
He should see with his own eyes. Why not? What can 
we do now anyhow? Where shall we go? He’s ruined us, 
ruined us.” 

The old woman burst out sobbing. 

Gerasim heard all that, and it stabbed him like a dagger. 
He realised what misfortune he would be bringing the old 
people, and it made him sick at heart. He stood there a 
long while, saddened, lost in thought, then he turned and 
went back into the coachman’s room. 

“Ah, you forgot something?” 

“No, Yegor Danilych.” Gerasim stammered out, “I’ve 
come—listen—I want to thank you ever and ever so much 
—for the way you received me—and—and all the trouble 
you took for me—but—I can’t take the place.” 


BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 


198 

“What! What does that mean?” 

“Nothing. I don’t want the place. I will look for an¬ 
other one for myself.” 

Yegor flew into a rage. 

“Did you mean to make a fool of me, did you, you idiot? 
You come here so meek—‘Try for me, do try for me’—and 
then you refuse to take the place. You rascal, you have 
disgraced me!” 

Gerasim found nothing to say in reply. He reddened, and 
lowered his eyes. Yegor turned his back scornfully and said 
nothing more. 

Then Gerasim quietly picked up his cap and left the 
coachman’s room. He crossed the yard rapidly, went out 
by the gate, and hurried off down the street. He felt happy 
and lighthearted. 


ONE AUTUMN NIGHT 

By Maxim Gorky 

O NCE in the autumn I happened to be in a very unpleas¬ 
ant and inconvenient position. In the town where 
I had just arrived and where I knew not a soul, I found 
myself without a farthing in my pocket and without a 
night’s lodging. 

Having sold during the first few days every part of my 
costume without which it was still possible to go about, I 
passed from the town into the quarter called “Yste,” where 
were the steamship wharves—a quarter which during the 
navigation season fermented with boisterous, laborious life, 
but now was silent and deserted, for we were in the last 
days of October. 

r Dragging my feet along the moist sand, and obstinately 
scrutinising it with the desire to discover in it any sort of 
fragment of food, I wandered alone among the deserted 
buildings and warehouses, and thought how good it would 
be to get a full meal. 

In our present state of culture hunger of the mind is more 
quickly satisfied than hunger of the body. You wander 
about the streets, you are surrounded by buildings not bad- 
looking from the outside and—you may safely say it—not 
so badly furnished inside, and the sight of them may excite 
within you stimulating ideas about architecture, hygiene, 
and many other wise and high-flying subjects. You may 
meet warmly and neatly dressed folks—all very polite, and 
turning away from you tactfully, not wishing offensively to 
notice the lamentable fact of your existence. Well, well, the 
mind of a hungry man is always better nourished and 
healthier than the mind of the well-fed man; and there you 
have a situation from which you may draw a very ingenious 
conclusion in favour of the ill fed. 

The evening was approaching, the rain was falling, and 
199 


200 


BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 


the wind blew violently from the north. It whistled in the 
empty booths and shops, blew into the plastered window- 
panes of the taverns, and whipped into foam the wavelets 
of the river which splashed noisily on the sandy shore, 
casting high their white crests, racing one after another in¬ 
to the dim distance, and leaping impetuously over one 
another’s shoulders. It seemed as if the river felt the 
proximity of winter, and was running at random away 
from the fetters of ice which the north wind might well 
have flung upon her that very night. The sky was heavy 
and dark; down from it swept incessantly scarcely visible 
drops of rain, and the melancholy elegy in nature all around 
me was emphasised by a couple of battered and misshapen 
willow-trees and a boat, bottom upwards, that was fastened 
to their roots. 

The overturned canoe with its battered keel and the 
miserable old trees rifled by the cold wind—everything 
around me was bankrupt, barren, and dead, and the sky 
flowed with undryable tears. . . . Everything around was 
waste and gloomy ... it seemed as if everything were 
dead, leaving me alone among the living, and for me also 
a cold death waited. 

I was then eighteen years old—a good time! 

I walked and walked along the cold wet sand, making 
my chattering teeth warble in honour of cold and hunger, 
when suddenly, as I was carefully searching for something 
to eat behind one of the empty crates, I perceived behind it, 
crouching on the ground, a figure in woman’s clothes dank 
with the rain and clinging fast to her stooping shoulders. 
Standing over her, I watched to see what she was doing. 
It appeared that she was digging a trench in the sand with 
her hands—digging away under one of the crates. 

“Why are you doing that?” I asked, crouching down on 
my heels quite close to her. 

She gave a little scream and was quickly on her legs 
again. Now that she stood there staring at me, with her 
wide-open grey eyes full of terror, I perceived that it was 
a girl of my own age, with a very pleasant face embellished 
unfortunately by three large blue marks. This spoilt her, 
although these blue marks had been distributed with a 


ONE AUTUMN NIGHT 


201 


remarkable sense of proportion, one at a time, and all were 
of equal size—two under the eyes, and one a little bigger 
on the forehead just over the bridge of the nose. This 
symmetry was evidently the work of an artist well inured 
to the business of spoiling the human physiognomy. 

The girl looked at me, and the terror in her eyes gradu¬ 
ally died out. . . . She shook the sand from her hands, ad¬ 
justed her cotton head-gear, cowered down, and said: 

“I suppose you too want something to eat? Dig away 
then! My hands are tired. Over there”—she nodded her 
head in the direction of a booth—“there is bread for certain 
. . . and sausages too. . . . That booth is still carrying on 
business.” 

I began to dig. She, after waiting a little and looking at 
me, sat down beside me and began to help me. 

We worked in silence. I cannot say now whether I 
thought at that moment of the criminal code, of morality, 
of proprietorship, and ail the other things about which, in 
the opinion of many experienced persons, one ought to 
think every moment of one’s life. Wishing to keep as 
close to the truth as possible, I must confess that apparently 
I was so deeply engaged in digging under the crate that I 
completely forgot about everything else except this one 
thing: What could be inside that crate? 

The evening drew on. The grey, mouldy, cold fog grew 
thicker and thicker around us. The waves roared with a 
hollower sound than before, and the rain pattered down on 
the boards of that crate more loudly and more frequently. 
Somewhere or other the night-watchman began springing 
his rattle. 

“Has it got a bottom or not?” softly inquired my assist¬ 
ant. I did not understand what she was talking about, and 
I kept silence. 

“I say, has the crate got a bottom? If it has we shall 
try in vain to break into it. Here we are digging a trench, 
and we may, after all, come upon nothing but solid boards. 
How shall we take them off? Better smash the lock; it is 
a wretched lock.” 

Good ideas rarely visit the heads of women, but, as you 
see, they do visit them sometimes. I have always valued 


202 BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 

good ideas, and have always tried to utilise them as far as 
possible. 

Having found the lock, I tugged at it and wrenched off 
the whole thing. My accomplice immediately stooped down 
and wriggled like a serpent into the gaping-open, four cor¬ 
nered cover of the crate whence she called to me approv¬ 
ingly, in a low tone: 

“You’re a brick! ” 

Nowadays a little crumb of praise from a woman is dearer 
to me than a whole dithyramb from a man, even though he 
be more eloquent than all the ancient and modern orators 
put together. Then, however, I was less amiably disposed 
than I am now, and, paying no attention to the compliment 
of my comrade, I asked her curtly and anxiously: 

“Is there anything?” 

In a monotonous tone she set about calculating our dis¬ 
coveries. 

“A basketful of bottles—thick furs—a sunshade—an iron 
pail.” 

All this was uneatable. I felt that my hopes had van¬ 
ished. . . . But suddenly she exclaimed vivaciously: 

“Aha! here it is!” 

“What?” 

“Bread ... a loaf . . . it’s only wet . . . take it!” 

A loaf flew to my feet and after it herself, my valiant 
comrade. I had already bitten off a morsel, stuffed it in my 
mouth, and was chewing it. . . . 

“Come, give me some too! ... And we mustn’t stay 
here. . . . Where shall we go?” she looked inquiringly 
about on all sides. ... It was dark, wet, and boisterous. 

“Look! there’s an upset canoe yonder ... let us go 
there.” 

“Let us go then! ” And off we set, demolishing our booty 
as we went, and filling our mouths with large portions of 
it. . . . The rain grew more violent, the river roared; from 
somewhere or other resounded a prolonged mocking whistle 
—just as if Someone great who feared nobody was whistling 
down all earthly institutions and along with them this horrid 
autumnal wind and us its heroes. This whistling made my 
heart throb painfully, in spite of which I greedily went on 


ONE AUTUMN NIGHT 


203 


eating, and in this respect the girl, walking on my left hand, 
kept even pace with me. 

“What do they call you?” I asked her—why I know not. 

“Natasha,” she answered shortly, munching loudly. 

I stared at her. My heart ached within me; and then I 
stared into the mist before me, and it seemed to me as if 
the inimical countenance of my Destiny was smiling at me 
enigmatically and coldly. 

The rain scourged the timbers of the skiff incessantly, and 
its soft patter induced melancholy thoughts, and the wind 
whistled as it flew down into the boat’s battered bottom 
through a rift, where some loose splinters of wood were rat¬ 
tling together—a disquieting and depressing sound. The 
waves of the river were splashing on the shore, and sounded 
so monotonous and hopeless, just as if they were telling 
something unbearably dull and heavy, which was boring 
them into utter disgust, something from which they wanted 
to run away and yet were obliged to talk about all the same. 
The sound of the rain blended with their splashing, and a 
long-drawn sigh seemed to be floating above the overturned 
skiff—the endless, labouring sigh of the earth, injured and 
exhausted by the eternal changes from the bright and warm 
summer to the cold misty and damp autumn. The wind 
blew continually over the desolate shore and the foaming 
river—blew and sang its melancholy songs. . . . 

Our position beneath the shelter of the skiff was utterly 
devoid of comfort; it was narrow and damp, tiny cold drops 
of rain dribbled through the damaged bottom; gusts of 
wind penetrated it. We sat in silence and shivered with 
cold. I remembered that I wanted to go to sleep. Natasha 
leaned her back against the hull of the boat and curled her¬ 
self up into a tiny ball. Embracing her knees with her 
hands, and resting her chin upon them, she stared doggedly 
at the river with wide-open eyes; on the pale patch of her 
face they seemed immense, because of the blue marks below 
them. She never moved, and this immobility and silence—I 
felt it—gradually produced within me a terror of my neigh¬ 
bour. I wanted to talk to her, but I knew not how to 
begin. 


204 BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 

It was she herself who spoke. 

“What a cursed thing life is!” she exclaimed plainly, ab¬ 
stractedly, and in a tone of deep conviction. 

But this was no complaint. In these words there was too 
much of indifference for a complaint. This simple soul 
thought according to her understanding—thought and pro¬ 
ceeded to form a certain conclusion which she expressed 
aloud, and which I could not confute for fear of contra¬ 
dicting myself. Therefore I was silent, and she, as if she 
had not noticed me, continued to sit there immovable. 

“Even if we croaked . . . what then . . .?” Natasha 
began again, this time quietly and reflectively, and still there 
was not one note of complaint in her words. It was plain 
that this person, in the course of her reflections on life, was 
regarding her own case, and had arrived at the conviction 
that in order to preserve herself from the mockeries of life, 
she was not in a position to do anything else but simply 
“croak”—to use her own expression. 

The clearness of this line of thought was inexpressibly 
sad and painful to me, and I felt that if I kept silence any 
longer I was really bound to weep. . . . And it would 
have been shameful to have done this before a woman, espe¬ 
cially as she was not weeping herself. I resolved to speak 
to her. 

“Who was it that knocked you about?” I asked. For 
the moment I could not think of anything more sensible or 
more delicate. 

“Pashka did it all,” she answered in a dull and level tone. 

“And who is he?” 

“My lover. ... He was a baker.” ' 

“Did he beat you often?” 

“Whenever he was drunk he beat me. . . . Often!” 

And suddenly, turning towards me, she began to talk 
about herself, Pashka, and their mutual relations. He was 
a baker with red moustaches and played very well on the 
banjo. He came to see her and greatly pleased her, for 
he was a merry chap and wore nice clean clothes. He had 
a vest which cost fifteen rubles and boots with dress tops. 
For these reasons she had fallen in love with him, and he be¬ 
came her “creditor.” And when he became her creditor 


ONE AUTUMN NIGHT 


205 


he made it his business to take away from her the money 
which her other friends gave to her for bonbons, and, get¬ 
ting drunk on this money, he would fall to beating her; 
but that would have been nothing if he hadn’t also begun 
to “run after” other girls before her very eyes. 

“Now, wasn’t that an insult? I am not worse than the 
others. Of course that meant that he was laughing at me, 
the blackguard. The day before yesterday I asked leave of 
my mistress to go out for a bit, went to him, and there I 
found Dimka sitting beside him drunk. And he, too, was 
half seas over. I said,‘You scoundrel, you!’ And he gave 
me a thorough hiding. He kicked me and dragged me by 
the hair. But that was nothing to what came after. He 
spoiled everything I had on—left me just as I am now! 
How could I appear before my mistress? He spoiled every¬ 
thing . . . my dress and my jacket too—it was quite a new 
one; I gave a fiver for it . . . and tore my kerchief from 
my head. . . . Oh, Lord! What will become of me 
now?” she suddenly whined in a lamentable overstrained 
voice. 

The wind howled, and became ever colder and more bois¬ 
terous. . . . Again my teeth began to dance up and down, 
and she, huddled up to avoid the cold, pressed as closely 
to me as she could, so that I could see the gleam of her 
eyes through the darkness. 

“What wretches all you men are! I’d burn you all in 
an oven; I’d cut you in pieces. If any one of you was 
dying I’d spit in his mouth, and not pity him a bit. Mean 
skunks! You wheedle and wheedle, you wag your tails like 
cringing dogs, and we fools give ourselves up to you, and it’s 
all up with us! Immediately you trample us underfoot. 
. . . Miserable loafers!” 

She cursed us up and down, but there was no vigour, no 
malice, no hatred of these “miserable loafers” in her cursing 
that I could hear. The tone of her language by no means 
corresponded with its subject-matter, for it was calm enough, 
and the gamut of her voice was terribly poor. 

Yet all this made a stronger impression on me than the 
most eloquent and convincing pessimistic books and 
speeches, of which I had read a good many and which I 


206 


BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 


still read to this day. And this, you see, was be¬ 
cause the agony of a dying person is much more natural 
and violent than the most minute and picturesque descrip¬ 
tions of death. 

I felt really wretched—more from cold than from the 
words of my neighbour. I groaned softly and ground my 
teeth. 

• Almost at the same moment I felt two little arms about me 
—one of them touched my neck and the other lay upon my 
face—and at the same time an anxious, gentle, friendly 
voice uttered the question: 

“What ails you?” 

I was ready to believe that some one else was asking me 
this and not Natasha, who had just declared that all men 
were scoundrels, and expressed a wish for their destruction. 
But she it was, and now she began speaking quickly, hur¬ 
riedly. 

“What ails you, eh? Are you cold? Are you frozen? Ah, 
what a one you are, sitting there so silent like a little owl! 
Why, you should have told me long ago that you were cold. 
Come ... lie on the ground . . . stretch yourself out 
and I will lie . . . there! How’s that? Now put your arms 
round me? . . . tighter! How’s that? You shall be warm 
very soon now. . . . And then we’ll lie back to back. 
. . . The night will pass so quickly, see if it won’t. I say 
. . . have you too been drinking? . . . Turned out of your 
place, eh? ... It doesn’t matter.” 

And she comforted me. . . . She encouraged me. 

May I be thrice accursed! What a world of irony was 
in this single fact for me! Just imagine! Here was I, 
seriously occupied at this very time with the destiny of 
humanity, thinking of the re-organisation of the social sys¬ 
tem, of political revolutions, reading all sorts of devilishly- 
wise books whose abysmal profundity was certainly un¬ 
fathomable by their very authors—at this very time, I say, 
I was trying with all my might to make ot myself “a potent 
active social force.” It even seemed to me that I had par¬ 
tially accomplished my object; anyhow, at this time, in my 
ideas about myself, I had got so far as to recognise that I 
had an exclusive right to exist, that I had the necessary 


ONE AUTUMN NIGHT 


20 7 


greatness to deserve to live my life, and that I was fully 
competent to play a great historical part therein. And a 
woman was now warming me with her body, a wretched, 
battered, hunted creature, who had no place and no value 
in life, and whom I had never thought of helping till she 
helped me herself, and whom I really would not have known 
how to help in any way even if the thought of it had oc¬ 
curred to me. 

Ah! I was ready to think that all this was happening to 
me in a dream—in a disagreeable, an oppressive dream. 

But, ugh! it was impossible for me to think that, for cold 
drops of rain were dripping down upon me, the woman was 
pressing close to me, her warm breath was fanning my face, 
and—despite a slight odor of vodka—it did me good. 
The wind howled and raged, the rain smote upon the skiff, 
the waves splashed, and both of us, embracing each other 
convulsively, nevertheless shivered with cold. All this was 
only too real, and I am certain that nobody ever dreamed 
such an oppressive and horrid dream as that reality. 

But Natasha was talking all the time of something or 
other, talking kindly and sympathetically, as only women 
can talk. Beneath the influence of her voice and kindly 
words a little fire began to burn up within me, and some¬ 
thing inside my heart thawed in consequence. 

Then tears poured from my eyes like a hailstorm, wash¬ 
ing away from my heart much that was evil, much that was 
stupid, much sorrow and dirt which had fastened upon it 
before that night. Natasha comforted me. 

“Come, come, that will do, little one! Don’t take on! 
That’ll do! God will give you another chance . . . you 
will right yourself and stand in your proper place again . . . 
and it will be all right. . . 

And she kept kissing me . . . many kisses did she give 
me . . . burning kisses . . . and all for nothing. . . . 

Those were the first kisses from a woman that had ever 
been bestowed upon me, and they were the best kisses too, 
for all the subsequent kisses cost me frightfully dear, and 
really gave me nothing at all in exchange. 

“Come, don’t take on so, funny one! I’ll manage for 
you to-morrow if you cannot find a place.” Her quiet 


208 BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 

persuasive whispering sounded in my ears as if it came 
through a dream. . . . 

There we lay till dawn. . . . 

And when the dawn came, we crept from behind the skiff 
and went into the town. . . . Then we took friendly leave 
of each other and never met again, although for half a year 
I searched in every hole and corner for that kind Natasha, 
with whom I spent the autumn night just described. 

If she be already dead—and well for her if it were so— 
may she rest in peace! And if she be alive . . . still I 
say “Peace to her soul!” And may the consciousness of 
her fall never enter her soul ... for that would be a super¬ 
fluous and fruitless suffering if life is to be lived. . . . 


HER LOVER 

By Maxim Gorky 

A N acquaintance of mine once told me the following 
story. 

When I was a student at Moscow I happened to live 
alongside one of those ladies whose repute is questionable. 
She was a Pole, and they called her Teresa. She was a 
tallish, powerfully-built brunette, with black, bushy eye¬ 
brows and a large coarse face as if carved out by a hatchet 
—the bestial gleam of her dark eyes, her thick bass voice, 
her cabman-like gait and her immense muscular vigour, 
worthy of a fishwife, inspired me with horror. I lived on 
the top flight and her garret was opposite to mine. I never 
left my door open when I knew her to be at home. But 
this, after all, was a very rare occurrence. Sometimes I 
chanced to meet her on the staircase or in the yard, and 
she would smile upon me with a smile which seemed to me 
to be sly and cynical. Occasionally, I saw her drunk, with 
bleary eyes, tousled hair, and a particularly hideous grin. 
On such occasions she would speak to me. 

“How d’ye do, Mr. Student!” and her stupid laugh 
would still further intensify my loathing of her. I should 
have liked to have changed my quarters in order to have 
avoided such encounters and greetings; but my little cham¬ 
ber was a nice one, and there was such a wide view from the 
window, and it was always so quiet in the street below— 
so I endured. 

And one morning I was sprawling on my couch, trying 
to find some sort of excuse for not attending my class, when 
the door opened, and the bass voice of Teresa the loath¬ 
some resounded from my threshold: 

“Good health to you, Mr. Student!” 

“What do you want?” I said. I saw that her face was 
confused and supplicatory. ... It was a very unusual sort 
of face for her. 


209 


210 BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 

“Sir! I want to beg a favour of you. Will you grant it 
me?” 

I lay there silent, and thought to myself: 

“Gracious! . . . Courage, my boy!” 

“I want to send a letter home, that’s what it is,” she said; 
her voice was beseeching, soft, timid. 

“Deuce take you!” I thought; but up I jumped, sat down 
at my table, took a sheet of paper, and said: 

“Come here, sit down, and dictate!” 

She came, sat down very gingerly on a chair, and looked 
at me with a guilty look. 

“Well, to whom do you want to write?” 

“To Boleslav Kashput, at the town of Svieptziana, on the 
Warsaw Road. . . .” 

“Well, fire away!” 

“My dear Boles . . . my darling . . . my faithful lover. 
May the Mother of God protect thee! Thou heart of gold, 
why hast thou not written for such a long time to thy sor¬ 
rowing little dove, Teresa?” 

I very nearly burst out laughing. “A sorrowing little 
dove!” more than five feet high, with fists a stone and 
more in weight, and as black a face as if the little dove had 
lived all its life in a chimney, and had never once washed 
itself! Restraining myself somehow, I asked: 

“Who is this Bolest?” 

“Boles, Mr. Student,” she said, as if offended with me 
for blundering over the name, “he is Boles—my young 
man.” 

“Young man!” 

“Why are you so surprised, sir? Cannot I, a girl, have 
a young man?” 

She? A girl? Well! 

“Oh, why not?” I said. “All things are possible. And 
has he been your young man long?” 

“Six years.” 

“Oh, ho!” I thought. “Well, let us write your let¬ 
ter. . . 

And I tell you plainly that I would willingly have changed 
places with this Boles if his fair correspondent had been not 
Teresa but something less than she. 


HER LOVER 


211 


“I thank you most heartily, sir, for your kind services, ,v 
said Teresa to me, with a curtsey. “Perhaps I can show you 
some service, eh?” 

“No, I most humbly thank you all the same.” 

“Perhaps, sir, your shirts or your trousers may want a 
little mending?” 

I felt that this mastodon in petticoats had made me grow 
quite red with shame, and I told her pretty sharply that I 
had no need whatever of her services. 

She departed. 

A week or two passed away. It was evening. I was sit¬ 
ting at my window whistling and thinking of some expedient 
for enabling me to get away from myself. I was bored; 
the weather was dirty. I didn’t want to go out, and out of 
sheer ennui I began a course of self-analysis and reflection. 
This also was dull enough work, but I didn’t care about 
doing anything else. Then the door opened. Heaven be 
praised! Some one came in. 

“Oh, Mr. Student, you have no pressing business, I 
hope?” 

It was Teresa. Humph! 

“No. What is it?” 

“I was going to ask you, sir, to write me another 
letter.” 

“Very well! To Boles, eh?” 

“No, this time it is from him.” 

“Wha-at?” 

“Stupid that lam! It is not for me, Mr. Student, I beg 
your pardon. It is for a friend of mine, that is to say, not 
a friend but an acquaintance—a man acquaintance. He 
has a sweetheart just like me here, Teresa. That’s how it 
is. Will you, sir, write a letter to this Teresa?” 

I looked at her—her face was troubled, her fingers were 
trembling. I was a bit fogged at first—and then I guessed 
how it was. 

“Look here, my lady,” I said, “there are no Boleses or 
Teresas at all, and you’ve been telling me a pack of lies. 
Don’t you come sneaking about me any longer. I have 
no wish whatever to cultivate your acquaintance. Do you 
understand?” 


212 


BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 


And suddenly she grew strangely terrified and distraught; 
she began to shift from foot to foot without moving from 
the place, and spluttered comically, as if she wanted to say 
something and couldn’t. I waited to see what would come 
of all this, and I saw and felt that, apparently, I had made 
a great mistake in suspecting her of wishing to draw me 
from the path of righteousness. It was evidently something 
very different. 

“Mr. Student!” she began, and suddenly, waving her 
hand, she turned abruptly towards the door and went out. 
I remained with a very unpleasant feeling in my mind. I 
listened. Her door was flung violently to—plainly the 
poor wench was very angry. ... I thought it over, and 
resolved to go to her, and, inviting her to come in here, 
write everything she wanted. 

I entered her apartment. I looked round. She was sit¬ 
ting at the table, leaning on her elbows, with her head in 
her hands. 

“Listen to me,” I said. 

Now, whenever I come to this point in my story, I always 
feel horribly awkward and idiotic. Well, well! 

“Listen to me,” I said. 

She leaped from her seat, came towards me with flashing 
eyes, and laying her hands on my shoulders, began to whis¬ 
per, or rather to hum in her peculiar bass voice: 

“Look you, now! It’s like this. There’s no Boles at all, 
and there’s no Teresa either. But what’s that to you? Is 
it a hard thing for you to draw your pen over paper? Eh? 
Ah, and you, too! Still such a little fair-haired boy! There’s 
nobody at all, neither Boles, nor Teresa, only me. There 
you have it, and much good may it do you!” 

“Pardon me!” said I, altogether flabbergasted by such a 
reception, “what is it all about? There’s no Boles, you 
say?” 

“No. So it is.” 

“And no Teresa either?” 

“And no Teresa. I’m Teresa.” 

I didn’t understand it at all. I fixed my eyes upon her, 
and tried to make out which of us was taking leave of his 
or her senses. But she went again to the table, searched 


HER LOVER 213 

about for something, came back to me, and said in an 
offended tone: 

“If it was so hard for you to write to Boles, look, there’s 
your letter, take it! Others will write for me.” 

I looked. In her hand was my letter to Boles. 
Phew! 

“Listen, Teresa! What is the meaning of all this? Why 
must you get others to write for you when I have already 
written it, and you haven’t sent it?” 

“Sent it where?” 

“Why, to this—Boles.” 

“There’s no such person.” 

I absolutely did not understand it. There was nothing 
for me but to spit and go. Then she explained. 

“What is it?” she said, still offended. “There’s no such 
person, I tell you,” and she extended her arms as if she 
herself did not understand why there should be no such 
person. “But I wanted him to be. . . . Am I then not a 
human creature like the rest of them? Yes, yes, I know, 
I know, of course. . . . Yet no harm was done to any one 
by my writing to him that I can see. . . 

“Pardon me—to whom?” 

“To Boles, of course.” 

“But he doesn’t exist.” 

. “Alas! alas! But what if he doesn’t? He doesn’t exist, 
but he might! I write to him, and it looks as if he did 
exist. And Teresa—that’s me, and he replies to me, and 
then I write to him again. . . .” 

I understood at last. And I felt so sick, so miserable, so 
ashamed, somehow. Alongside of me, not three yards away, 
lived a human creature who had nobody in the world to 
treat her kindly, affectionately, and this human being had 
invented a friend for herself! 

“Look, now! you wrote me a letter to Boles, and I gave 
it to some one else to read it to me; and when they read it 
to me I listened and fancied that Boles was there. And I 
asked you to write me a letter from Boles to Teresa—that 
is to me. When they write such a letter for me, and read 
it to me, I feel quite sure that Boles is there. And life 
grows easier for me in consequence.” 


214 


BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 


“Deuce take you for a blockhead!” said I to myself when 
I heard this. 

And from thenceforth, regularly, twice a week, I wrote a 
letter to Boles, and an answer from Boles to Teresa. I 
wrote those answers well. . . . She, of course, listened to 
them, and wept like anything, roared, I should say, with her 
bass voice. And in return for my thus moving her to tears 
by real letters from the imaginary Boles, she began to mend 
the holes I had in my socks, shirts, and other articles of 
clothing. Subsequently, about three months after this his¬ 
tory began, they put her in prison for something or other. 
No doubt by this time she is dead. 

My acquaintance shook the ash from his cigarette, looked 
pensively up at the sky, and thus concluded: 

Well, well, the more a human creature has tasted of bitter 
things the more it hungers after the sweet things of life. 
And we, wrapped round in the rags of our virtues, and re¬ 
garding others through the mist of our self-sufficiency, and 
persuaded of our universal impeccability, do not understand 
this. 

And the whole thing turns out pretty stupidly—and very 
cruelly. The fallen classes, we say. And who are the fallen 
classes, I should like to know? They are, first of all, peo¬ 
ple with the same bones, flesh, and blood and nerves as our¬ 
selves. We have been told this day after day for ages. 
And we actually listen—and the devil only knows how 
hideous the whole thing is. Or are we completely depraved 
by the loud sermonising of humanism? In reality, we also 
are fallen folks, and, so far as I can see, very deeply fallen 
into the abyss of self-sufficiency and the conviction of our 
own superiority. But enough of this. It is all as old as 
the hills—so old that it is a shame to speak of it. Very 
old indeed—yes, that’s what it is! 


LAZARUS 

By Leonid Andreyev 

I 

W HEN Lazarus rose from the grave, after three days 
and nights in the mysterious thraldom of death, and 
returned alive to his home, it was a long time before any 
one noticed the evil peculiarities in him that were later to 
make his very name terrible. His friends and relatives were 
jubilant that he had come back to life. They surrounded 
him with tenderness, they were lavish of their eager atten¬ 
tions, spending the greatest care upon his food and drink 
and the new garments they made for him. They clad him 
gorgeously in the glowing colours of hope and laughter, and 
when, arrayed like a bridegroom, he sat at table with them 
again, ate again, and drank again, they wept fondly and 
summoned the neighbours to look upon the man miracu¬ 
lously raised from the dead. 

The neighbours came and were moved with joy. Strangers 
arrived from distant cities and villages to worship the 
miracle. They burst into stormy exclamations, and buzzed 
around the house of Mary and Martha, like so many bees. 

That which was new in Lazarus’ face and gestures they 
explained naturally, as the traces of his severe illness and 
the shock he had passed through. It was evident that the 
disintegration of the body had been halted by a miraculous 
power, but that the restoration had not been complete; 
that death had left upon his face and body the effect of an 
artist’s unfinished sketch seen through a thin glass. On 
his temples, under his eyes, and in the hollow of his cheek 
lay a thick, earthy blue. His fingers were blue, too, and 
under his nails, which had grown long in'the grave, the blue 
had turned livid. Here and there on his lips .and body, the 
skin, blistered in the grave, had burst open and left reddish 

215 


2l6 


BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 


glistening cracks, as if covered with a thin, glassy slime. 
And he had grown exceedingly stout. His body was horribly 
bloated and suggested the fetid, damp smell of putrefaction. 
But the cadaverous, heavy odour that clung to his burial 
garments and, as it seemed, to his very body, soon wore 
off, and after some time the blue of his hands and face soft¬ 
ened, and the reddish cracks of his skin smoothed out, 
though they never disappeared completely. Such was the 
aspect of Lazarus in his second life. It looked natural only 
to those who had seen him buried. 

Not merely Lazarus’ face, but his very character, it 
seemed, had changed; though it astonished no one and did 
not attract the attention it deserved. Before his death Laza¬ 
rus had been cheerful and careless, a lover of laughter and 
harmless jest. It was because of his good humour, pleas¬ 
ant and equable, his freedom from meanness and gloom, 
that he had been so beloved by the Master. Now he was 
grave and silent; neither he himself jested nor did he laugh 
at the jests of others; and the words he spoke occasionally 
were simple, ordinary and necessary words—words as much 
devoid of sense and depth as are the sounds with which an 
animal expresses pain and pleasure, thirst and hunger. Such 
words a man may speak all his life and no one would ever 
know the sorrows and joys that dwelt within him. 

Thus it was that Lazarus sat at the festive table among 
his friends and relatives—his face the face of a corpse over 
which, for three days, death had reigned in darkness, his 
garments gorgeous and festive, glittering with gold, bloody- 
red and purple; his mien heavy and silent. He was hor¬ 
ribly changed and strange, but as yet undiscovered. In 
high waves, now mild, now stormy, the festivities went on 
around him. Warm glances of love caressed his face, still 
cold with the touch of the grave; and a friend’s warm hand 
patted his bluish, heavy hand. And the music played joy¬ 
ous tunes mingled of the sounds of the tympanum, the 
pipe, the zither and the dulcimer. It was as if bees were 
humming, locusts buzzing and birds singing over the happy 
home of Mary and Martha. 



LAZARUS 


217 


II 

Some one recklessly lifted the veil. By one breath of an 
uttered word he destroyed the serene charm, and uncovered 
the truth in its ugly nakedness. No thought was clearly 
defined in his mind, when his lips smilingly asked: “Why 
do you not tell us, Lazarus, what was There?” And all 
became silent, struck with the question. Only now it seemed 
to have occurred to them that for three days Lazarus had 
been dead; and they looked with curiosity, awaiting an 
answer. But Lazarus remained silent. 

“You will not tell us?” wondered the inquirer. “Is it so 
terrible There?” 

Again his thought lagged behind his words. Had it pre¬ 
ceded them, he would not have asked the question, for, at 
the very moment he uttered it, his heart sank with a dread 
fear. All grew restless; they awaited the words of Lazarus 
anxiously. But he was silent, cold and severe, and his eyes 
were cast down. And now, as if for the first time, they per¬ 
ceived the horrible bluishness of his face and the loathsome 
corpulence of his body. On the table, as if forgotten by 
Lazarus, lay his livid blue hand, and all eyes were riveted 
upon it, as though expecting the desired answer from that 
hand. The musicians still played; then silence fell upon 
them, too, and the gay sounds died down, as scattered coals 
are extinguished by water. The pipe became mute, and 
the ringing tympanum and the murmuring dulcimer; and as 
though a chord were broken, as though song itself were 
dying, the zither echoed a trembling broken sound. Then 
ail was quiet. 

“You will not?” repeated the inquirer, unable to restrain 
his babbling tongue. Silence reigned, and the livid blue 
hand lay motionless. It moved slightly, and the company 
sighed with relief and raised their eyes. Lazarus, risen from 
the dead, was looking straight at them, embracing all with 
one glance, heavy and terrible. 

This was on the third day after Lazarus had arisen from 
the grave. Since then many had felt that his gaze was the 
gaze of destruction, but neither those who had been for- 


2l8 


BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 


ever crushed by it, nor those who in the prime of life (mys¬ 
terious even as death) had found the will to resist his 
glance, could ever explain the terror that lay immovable in 
the depths of his black pupils. He looked quiet and simple. 
One felt that he had no intention to hide anything, but also 
no intention to tell anything. His look was cold, as of 
one who is entirely indifferent to all that is alive. And many 
careless people who pressed around him, and did not notice 
him, later learned with wonder and fear the name of this 
stout, quiet man who brushed against them with his sumptu¬ 
ous, gaudy garments. The sun did not stop shining when 
he looked, neither did the fountain cease playing, and the 
Eastern sky remained cloudless and blue as always; but 
the man who fell under his inscrutable gaze could no longer 
feel the sun, nor hear the fountain, nor recognise his native 
sky. Sometimes he would cry bitterly, sometimes tear his 
hair in despair and madly call for help; but generally it 
happened that the men thus stricken by the gaze of Lazarus 
began to fade away listlessly and quietly and pass into a 
slow death lasting many long years. They died in the pres¬ 
ence of everybody, colourless, haggard and gloomy, like 
trees withering on rocky ground. Those who screamed in 
madness sometimes came back to life; but the others, never. 

“So you will not tell us, Lazarus, what you saw There?” 
the inquirer repeated for the third time. But now his voice 
was dull, and a dead, grey weariness looked stupidly from 
out his eyes. The faces of all present were also covered 
by the same dead grey weariness like a mist. The guests 
stared at one another stupidly, not knowing why they had 
come together or why they sat around this rich table. They 
stopped talking, and vaguely felt it was time to leave; but 
they could not overcome the lassitude that spread through 
their muscles. So they continued to sit there, each one iso¬ 
lated, like little dim lights scattered in the darkness of night. 

The musicians were paid to play, and they again took up 
the instruments, and again played gay or mournful airs. 
But it was music made to order, always the same tunes, and 
the guests listened wonderingly. Why was this music nec¬ 
essary, they thought, why was it necessary and what good 
did it do for people to pull at strings and blow their cheeks 






LAZARUS 


219 


into thin pipes, and produce varied and strange-sounding 
noises? 

“How badly they play!” said some one. 

The musicians were insulted and left. Then the guests 
departed one by one, for it was nearing night. And when 
the quiet darkness enveloped them, and it became easier 
to breathe, the image of Lazarus suddenly arose before each 
one in stern splendour. There he stood, with the blue face 
of a corpse and the raiment of a bridegroom, sumptuous 
and resplendent, in his eyes that cold stare in the depths of 
which lurked The Horrible! They stood still as if turned 
into stone. The darkness surrounded them, and in the midst 
of this darkness flamed up the horrible apparition, the super¬ 
natural vision, of the one who for three days had lain under 
the measureless power of death. Three days he had been 
dead. Thrice had the sun risen and set—and he had lain 
dead. The children had played, the water had murmured as 
it streamed over the rocks, the hot dust had clouded the 
highway—and he had been dead. And now he was among 
men again—touched them—looked at them —looked at 
them! And through the black rings of his pupils, as through 
dark glasses, the unfathomable There gazed upon humanity. 


Ill 

No one took care of Lazarus, and no friends or kin¬ 
dred remained with him. Only the great desert, enfolding 
the Holy City, came close to the threshold of his abode. It 
entered his home, and lay down on his couch like a spouse, 
and put out all the fires. No one cared for Lazarus. One 
after the other went away, even his sisters, Mary and 
Martha. For a long while Martha did not want to leave 
him, for she knew not who would nurse him or take care 1 
of him; and she cried and prayed. But one night, when 
the wind was roaming about the desert, and the rustling 
cypress trees were bending over the roof, she dressed her¬ 
self quietly, and quietly went away. Lazarus probably 
heard how the door was slammed—it had not shut properly 
and the wind kept knocking it continually against the post 


220 


BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 


—but he did not rise, did not go out, did not try to find out 
the reason. And the whole night until the morning the 
cypress trees hissed over his head, and the door swung to 
and fro, allowing the cold, greedily prowling desert to en¬ 
ter his dwelling. Everybody shunned him as though he 
were a leper. They wanted to put a bell on his neck to 
avoid meeting him. But some one, turning pale, remarked 
it would be terrible if at night, under the windows, one 
should happen to hear Lazarus’ bell, and all grew pale and 
assented. 

Since he did nothing for himself, he would probably have 
starved had not his neighbours, in trepidation, saved some 
food for him. Children brought it to him. They did not 
fear him, neither did they laugh at him in the innocent 
cruelty in which children often laugh at unfortunates. They 
were indifferent to him, and Lazarus showed the same indif¬ 
ference to them. He showed no desire to thank them for 
their services; he did not try to pat the dark hands and 
look into the simple shining little eyes. Abandoned to the 
ravages of time and the desert, his house was falling to 
ruins, and his hungry, bleating goats had long been scat¬ 
tered among his neighbours. His wedding garments had 
grown old. He wore them without changing them, as he 
had donned them on that happy day when the musicians 
played. He did not see the difference between old and new, 
between tom and whole. The brilliant colours were burnt 
and faded; the vicious dogs of the city and the sharp thorns 
of the desert had rent the fine clothes to shreds. 

During the day, when the sun beat down mercilessly 
upon all living things, and even the scorpions hid under the 
stones, convulsed with a mad desire to sting, he sat mo¬ 
tionless in the burning rays, lifting high his blue face and 
shaggy wild beard. 

While yet the people were unafraid to speak to him, some 
one had asked him: “Poor Lazarus! Do you find it pleas¬ 
ant to sit so, and look at the sun?” And he answered: 
“Yes, it is pleasant.” 

The thought suggested itself to people that the cold of 
the three days in the grave had been so intense, its dark¬ 
ness so deep, that there was not in all the earth enough 


LAZARUS 


221 


heat or light to warm Lazarus and lighten the gloom of 
his eyes; and inquirers turned away with a sigh. 

And when the setting sun, flat and purple-red, descended 
to earth, Lazarus went into the desert and walked straight 
toward it, as though intending to reach it. Always he walked 
directly toward the sun, and those who tried to follow him 
and find out what he did at night in the desert had indelibly 
imprinted upon their mind’s vision the black silhouette of a 
tall, stout man against the red background of an immense 
disk. The horrors of the night drove them away, and so 
they never found out what Lazarus did in the desert; but 
the image of the black form against the red was burned 
forever into their brains. Like an animal with a cinder 
in its eye which furiously rubs its muzzle against its paws, 
they foolishly rubbed their eyes; but the impression left by 
Lazarus was ineffaceable, forgotten only in death. 

There were people living far away who never saw Lazarus 
and only heard of him. With an audacious curiosity which 
is stronger than fear and feeds on fear, with a secret sneer 
in their hearts, some of them came to him one day as he 
basked in the sun, and entered into conversation with him. 
At that time his appearance had changed for the better and 
was not so frightful. At first the visitors snapped their 
fingers and thought disapprovingly of the foolish inhabitants 
of the Holy City. But when the short talk came to an 
end and they went home, their expression was such that the 
inhabitants of the Holy City at once knew their errand and 
said: “Here go some more madmen at whom Lazarus has 
looked.” The speakers raised their hands in silent pity. 

Other visitors came, among them brave warriors in clink¬ 
ing armour, who knew not fear, and happy youths who made 
merry with laughter and song. Busy merchants, jingling 
their coins, ran in for awhile, and proud attendants at the 
Temple placed their staffs at Lazarus’ door. But no one 
returned the same as he came. A frightful shadow fell upon 
their souls, and gave a new appearance to the old familiar 
world. 

Those who felt any desire to speak,- after they had been 
stricken by the gaze of Lazarus, described the change that 
had come over them somewhat like this: 


222 


BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 


All objects seen by the eye and palpable to the hand 
became empty, light and transparent, as though they were 
light shadows in the darkness; and this darkness enveloped 
the whole universe. It was dispelled neither by the sun, nor 
by the moon, nor by the stars, but embraced the earth like a 
mother, and clothed it in a boundless black veil. 

Into all bodies it penetrated, even into iron and stone; 
and the particles of the body lost their unity and became 
lonely. Even to the heart of the particles it penetrated, 
and the particles of the particles became lonely. 

The vast emptiness which surrounds the universe, was 
not filled with things seen, with sun or moon or stars; it 
stretched boundless, penetrating everywhere, disuniting 
everything, body from body, particle from particle. 

In emptiness the trees spread their roots, themselves 
empty; in emptiness rose phantom temples, palaces and 
houses—all empty; and in the emptiness moved restless 
Man, himself empty and light, like a shadow. 

There was no more a sense of time; the beginning of all 
things and their end merged into one. In the very moment 
when a building was being erected and one could hear the 
builders striking with their hammers, one seemed already 
to see its ruins, and then emptiness where the ruins were. 

A man was just born, and funeral candles were already 
lighted at his head, and then were extinguished; and soon 
there was emptiness where before had been the man and the 
candles. m 

And surrounded by Darkness and Empty Waste, Man 
trembled hopelessly before the dread of the Infinite. 

So spoke those who had a desire to speak. But much 
more could probably have been told by those who did not 
want to talk, and who died in silence. 


IV 

At that time there lived in Rome a celebrated sculptor 
by the name of Aurelius. Out of clay, marble and bronze 
he created forms of gods and men of such beauty that this 
beauty was proclaimed immortal. But he himself was not 


LAZARUS 


223 


satisfied, and said there was a supreme beauty that he had 
never succeeded in expressing in marble or bronze. “I have 
not yet gathered the radiance of the moon,” he said; “I have 
not yet caught the glare of the sun. There is no soul in 
my marble, there is no life in my beautiful bronze.” And 
when by moonlight he would slowly wander along the roads, 
crossing the black shadows of the cypress-trees, his white 
tunic flashing in the moonlight, those he met used to laugh 
good-naturedly and say: “Is it moonlight that you are gath¬ 
ering, Aurelius? Why did you not bring some baskets 
along?” 

And he, too, would laugh and point to his eyes and say: 
“Here are the baskets in which I gather the light of the 
moon and the radiance of the sun.” 

And that was the truth. In his eyes shone moon and 
sun. But he could not transmit the radiance to marble. 
Therein lay the greatest tragedy of his life. He was a de¬ 
scendant of an ancient race of patricians, had a good wife 
and children, and except in this one respect, lacked nothing. 

When the dark rumour about Lazarus reached him, he 
consulted his wife and friends and decided to make the 
long voyage to Judea, in order that he might look upon the 
man miraculously raised from the dead. He felt lonely in 
those days and hoped on the way to renew his jaded energies. 
What they told him about Lazarus did not frighten him. He 
had meditated much upon death. He did not like it, nor 
did he like those who tried to harmonise it with life. On 
this side, beautiful life; on the other, mysterious death, he 
reasoned, and no better lot could befall a man than to 
live—to enjoy life and the beauty of living. And he already 
had conceived a desire to convince Lazarus of the truth of 
this view and to return his soul to life even as his body had 
been returned. This task did not appear impossible, for the 
reports about Lazarus, fearsome and strange as they were, 
did not tell the whole truth about him, but only carried a 
vague warning against something awful. 

Lazarus was getting up from a stone to follow in the path 
of the setting sun, on the evening when the rich Roman, 
accompanied by an armed slave, approached him, and in a 
ringing voice called to him: “Lazarus!” 


224 


BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 


Lazarus saw a proud and beautiful face, made radiant 
by fame, and white garments and precious jewels shining 
in the sunlight. The ruddy rays of the sun lent to the head 
and face a likeness to dimly shining bronze—that was what 
Lazarus saw. He sank back to his seat obediently, and 
wearily lowered his eyes. 

“It is true you are not beautiful, my poor Lazarus,” said 
the Roman quietly, playing with his gold chain. “You are 
even frightful, my poor friend; and death was not lazy the 
day when you so carelessly fell into its arms. But you 
are as fat as a barrel, and ‘Fat people are not bad,’ as the 
great Caesar said. I do not understand why people are so 
afraid of you. You will permit me to stay with you over 
night? It is already late, and I have no abode.” 

Nobody had ever asked Lazarus to be allowed to pass the 
night with him. 

“I have no bed,” said he. 

“I am somewhat of a warrior and can sleep sitting,” 
replied the Roman. “We shall make a light.” 

“I have no light.” 

“Then we will converse in the darkness like two friends. 
I suppose you have some wine?” 

“I have no wine.” 

The Roman laughed. 

“Now I understand why you are so gloomy and why you 
do not like your second life. No wine? Well, we shall 
do without. You know there are words that go to one’s 
head even as Falernian wine.” 

With a motion of his head he dismissed the slave, and 
they were alone. And again the sculptor spoke, but it 
seemed as though the sinking sun had penetrated into his 
words. They faded, pale and empty, as if trembling on 
weak feet, as if slipping and falling, drunk with the wine 
of anguish and despair. And black chasms appeared be¬ 
tween the two men—like remote hints of vast emptiness 
and vast darkness. 

“Now I am your guest and you will not ill-treat me, 
Lazarus!” said the Roman. “Hospitality is binding even 
upon those who have been three days dead. Three days, 
I am told, you were in the grave. It must have been cold 


LAZARUS 


225 


there . . . and it is from there that you have brought this 
bad habit of doing without light and wine. I like a light. 
It gets dark so quickly here. Your eyebrows and forehead 
have an interesting line: even as the ruins of castles covered 
with the ashes of an earthquake. But why in such strange, 
ugly clothes? I have seen the bridegrooms of your country, 
they wear clothes like that—such ridiculous clothes—such 
awful garments. . . . Are you a bridegroom?” 

Already the sun had disappeared. A gigantic black 
shadow was approaching fast from the west, as if prodigious 
bare feet were rustling over the sand. And the chill breezes 
stole up behind. 

“In the darkness you seem even bigger, Lazarus, as 
though you had grown stouter in these few minutes. Do 
you feed on darkness, perchance? . . . And I would like 
a light . . . just a small light . . . just a small light. And 
I am cold. The nights here are so barbarously cold. ... If 
it were not so dark, I should say you were looking at me, 
Lazarus. Yes, it seems, you are looking. You are looking. 
You are looking at mel ... 1 feel it—now you are smil¬ 
ing.” 

The night had come, and a heavy blackness filled the air. 

“How good it will be when the sun rises again to-morrow. 
. . . You know I am a great sculptor ... so my friends 
call me. I create, yes, they say I create, but for that day¬ 
light is necessary. I give life to cold marble. I melt the 
ringing bronze in the fire, in a bright, hot fire. Why did 
you touch me with your hand?” 

“Come,” said Lazarus, “you are my guest.” And they 
went into the house. And the shadows of the long evening 
fell on the earth. ... 

The slave at last grew tired waiting for his master, and 
when the sun stood high he came to the house. And he 
saw, directly under its burning rays, Lazarus and his master 
sitting close together. They looked straight up and were 
silent. 

The slave wept and cried aloud: “Master, what ails 
you, Master!” 

The same day Aurelius left for Rome. The whole way 
he was thoughtful and silent, attentively examining every- 


226 


BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 


thing, the people, the ship, and the sea, as though endeav¬ 
ouring to recall something. On the sea a great storm over¬ 
took them, and all the while Aurelius remained on deck and 
gazed eagerly at the approaching and falling waves. When 
he reached home his family were shocked at the terrible 
change in his demeanour, but he calmed them with the 
words: “I have found it!” 

In the dusty clothes which he had worn during the entire 
journey and had not changed, he began his work, and the 
marble ringingly responded to the resounding blows of the 
hammer. Long and eagerly he worked, admitting no one. 
At last, one morning, he announced that the work was ready, 
and gave instructions that all his friends, and the severe 
critics and judges of art, be called together. Then he 
donned gorgeous garments, shining with gold, glowing with 
the purple of the byssin. 

“Here is what I have created,” he said thoughtfully. 

His friends looked, and immediately the shadow of deep 
sorrow covered their faces. It was a thing monstrous, pos¬ 
sessing none of the forms familiar to the eye, yet not de¬ 
void of a hint of some new unknown form. On a thin tor¬ 
tuous little branch, or rather an ugly likeness of one, 
lay crooked, strange, unsightly, shapeless heaps of some¬ 
thing turned outside in, or something turned inside out— 
wild fragments which seemed to be feebly trying to get 
away from themselves. And, accidentally, under one of the 
wild projections, they noticed a wonderfully sculptured but¬ 
terfly, with transparent wings, trembling as though with a 
weak longing to fly. 

“Why that wonderful butterfly, Aurelius?” timidly asked 
some one. 

“I do not know,” answered the sculptor. 

The truth had to be told, and one of his friends, the one 
who loved Aurelius best, said: “This is ugly, my poor 
friend. It must be destroyed. Give me the hammer.” And 
with two blows he destroyed the monstrous mass, leaving 
only the wonderfully sculptured butterfly. 

After that Aurelius created nothing. He looked with ab¬ 
solute indifference at marble and at bronze and at his own 
divine creations, in which dwelt immortal beauty. In the 


LAZARUS 


227 


hope of breathing into him once again the old flame of in¬ 
spiration, with the idea of awakening his dead soul, his 
friends led him to see the beautiful creations of others, 
but he remained indifferent and no smile warmed his closed 
lips. And only after they spoke to him much and long of 
beauty, he would reply wearily: 

“But all this is—a lie.” 

And in the daytime, when the sun was shining, he would 
go into his rich and beautifully laid-out garden, and finding 
a place where there was no shadow, would expose his bare 
head and his dull eyes to the glitter and burning heat of 
the sun. Red and white butterflies fluttered around; down 
into the marble cistern ran splashing water from the crooked 
mouth of a blissfully drunken Satyr; but he sat motionless, 
like a pale shadow of that other one who, in a far land, at 
the very gates of the stony desert, also sat motionless under 
the fiery sun. 


V 

And it came about finally that Lazarus was summoned 
to Rome by the great Augustus. 

They dressed him in gorgeous garments as though it had 
been ordained that he was to remain a bridegroom to an un¬ 
known bride until the very day of his death. It was as if 
an old coffin, rotten and falling apart, were regilded over 
and over, and gay tassels were hung on it. And solemnly 
they conducted him in gala attire, as though in truth it were 
a bridal procession, the runners loudly sounding the trumpet 
that the way be made for the ambassadors of the Emperor. 
.But the roads along which he passed were deserted. His 
entire native land cursed the execrable name of Lazarus, 
the man miraculously brought to life, and the people scat¬ 
tered at the mere report of his horrible approach. The 
trumpeters blew lonely blasts, and only the desert answered 
with a dying echo. 

Then they carried him across the sea on the saddest and 
most gorgeous ship that was ever mirrored in the azure 
waves of the Mediterranean. There were many people 
aboard, but the ship was silent and still as a coffin, and the 


228 


BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 


water seemed to moan as it parted before the short curved 
prow. Lazarus sat lonely, baring his head to the sun, and 
listening in silence to the splashing of the waters. Further 
away the seamen and the ambassadors gathered like a crowd 
of distressed shadows. If a thunderstorm had happened to 
burst upon them at that time or the wind had overwhelmed 
the red sails, the ship would probably have perished, for 
none of those who were on her had strength or desire enough 
to fight for life. With supreme effort some went to the side 
of the ship and eagerly gazed at the blue, transparent abyss. 
Perhaps they imagined they saw a naiad flashing a pink 
shoulder through the waves, or an insanely joyous and 
drunken centaur galloping by, splashing up the water with 
his hoofs. But the sea was deserted and mute, and so was 
the watery abyss. 

Listlessly Lazarus set foot on the streets of the Eternal 
City, as though all its riches, all the majesty of its gigantic 
edifices, all the lustre and beauty and music of refined life, 
were simply the echo of the wind in the desert, or the misty 
images of hot running sand. Chariots whirled by; the crowd 
of strong, beautiful, haughty men passed on, builders of the 
Eternal City and proud partakers of its life; songs rang 
out; fountains laughed; pearly laughter of women filled the 
air, while the drunkard philosophised and the sober ones 
smilingly listened; horseshoes rattled on the pavement. And 
surrounded on all sides by glad sounds, a fat, heavy man 
moved through the centre of the city like a cold spot of 
silence, sowing in his path grief, anger and vague, carking 
distress. Who dared to be sad in Rome? indignantly de¬ 
manded frowning citizens; and in two days the swift- 
tongued Rome knew of Lazarus, the man miraculously 
raised from the grave, and timidly evaded him. 

There were many brave men ready to try their strength, 
and at their senseless call Lazarus came obediently. The 
Emperor was so engrossed with state affairs that he delayed 
receiving the visitor, and for seven days Lazarus moved 
among the people. 

A jovial drunkard met him with a smile on his red lips. 
“Drink, Lazarus, drink!” he cried, “Would not Augustus 
laugh to see you drink!” And naked, besotted women 


AZARUS 


229 


laughed, and decked the blue hands of Lazarus with rose- 
leaves. But the drunkard looked into the eyes of Lazarus— 
and his joy ended forever. Thereafter he was always drunk. 
He drank no more, but was drunk all the time, shadowed by 
fearful dreams, instead of the joyous reveries that wine 
gives. Fearful dreams became the food of his broken spirit. 
Fearful dreams held him day and night in the mists of 
monstrous fantasy, and death itself was no more fearful 
than the apparition of its fierce precursor. 

Lazarus came to a youth and his lass who loved each other 
and were beautiful in their love. Proudly and strongly 
holding in his arms his beloved one, the youth said, with 
gentle pity: “Look at us, Lazarus, and rejoice with us. 
Is there anything stronger than love?” 

And Lazarus looked at them. And their whole life they 
continued to love one another, but their love became mourn¬ 
ful and gloomy, even as those cypress trees over the tombs 
that feed their roots on the putrescence of the grave, and 
strive in vain in the quiet evening hour to touch the sky 
with their pointed tops. Hurled by fathomless life-forces 
into each other’s arms, they mingled their kisses with tears, 
their joy with pain, and only succeeded in realising the 
more vividly a sense of their slavery to the silent Nothing. 
Forever united, forever parted, they flashed like sparks, and 
like sparks went out in boundless darkness. 

Lazarus came to a proud sage, and the sage said to him: 
“I already know all the horrors that you may tell me, 
Lazarus. With what else can you terrify me?” 

Only a few moments passed before the sage realised that 
the knowledge of the horrible is not the horrible, and that 
the sight of death is not death. And he felt that in the eyes 
of the Infinite wisdom and folly are the same, for the In¬ 
finite knows them not. And the boundaries between knowl¬ 
edge and ignorance, between truth and falsehood, between 
top and bottom, faded and his shapeless thought was sus¬ 
pended in emptiness. Then he grasped his grey head in his 
hands and cried out insanely: “I cannot think! I can¬ 
not think!” 

Thus it was that under the cool gaze of Lazarus, the 
man miraculously raised from the dead, all that serves to 


230 


BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 


affirm life, its sense and its joys, perished. And people be¬ 
gan to say it was dangerous to allow him to see the Emperor; 
that it were better to kill him and bury him secretly, and 
swear he had disappeared. Swords were sharpened and 
youths devoted to the welfare of the people announced their 
readiness to become assassins, when Augustus upset the cruel 
plans by demanding that Lazarus appear before him. 

Even though Lazarus could not be kept away, it was felt 
that the heavy impression conveyed by his face might be 
somewhat softened. With that end in view expert paint¬ 
ers, barbers and artists were secured who worked the whole 
night on Lazarus’ head. His beard was trimmed and 
curled. The disagreeable and deadly bluishness of his 
hands and face was covered up with paint; his hands were 
whitened, his cheeks rouged. The disgusting wrinkles of 
suffering that ridged his old face were patched up and 
painted, and on the smooth surface, wrinkles of good-nature 
and laughter, and of pleasant, good-humoured cheeriness, 
were laid on artistically with fine brushes. 

Lazarus submitted indifferently to all they did with him, 
and soon was transformed into a stout, nice-looking old man, 
for all the world a quiet and good-humoured grandfather 
of numerous grandchildren. He looked as though the smile 
with which he told funny stories had not left his lips, as 
though a quiet tenderness still lay hidden in the corner of 
his eyes. But the wedding-dress they did not dare to take 
off; and they could not change his eyes—the dark, terrible 
eyes from out of which stared the incomprehensible There . 


VI 

Lazarus was untouched by the magnificence of the imper¬ 
ial apartments. He remained stolidly indifferent, as though 
he saw no contrast between his ruined house at the edge of 
the desert and the solid, beautiful palace of stone. Under 
his feet the hard marble of the floor took on the semblance 
of the moving sands of the desert, and to his eyes the 
throngs of gaily dressed, haughty men were as unreal as the 
emptiness of the air. They looked not into his face as he 



LAZARUS 


231 


passed by, fearing to come under the awful bane Gf his eyes; 
but when the sound of his heavy steps announced that he 
had passed, heads were lifted, and eyes examined with timid 
curiosity the figure of the corpulent, tall, slightly stooping 
old man, as he slowly passed into the heart of the imperial 
palace. If death itself had appeared men would not have 
feared it so much; for hitherto death had been known to 
the dead only, and life to the living only, and between 
these two there had been no bridge. But this strange being 
knew death, and that knowledge of his was felt to be mys¬ 
terious and cursed. “He will kill our great, divine Augus¬ 
tus,” men cried with horror, and they hurled curses after 
him. Slowly and stolidly he passed them by, penetrating 
ever deeper into the palace. « 

Caesar knew already who Lazarus was, and was prepared 
to meet him. He was a courageous man; he felt his power 
was invincible, and in the fateful encounter with the man 
“wonderfully raised from the dead” he refused to lean on 
other men’s weak help. Man to man, face to face, he met 
Lazarus. £ 

” “Do not fix your gaze on me, Lazarus,” he commanded. 
“I have heard that your head is like the head of Medusa, 
and turns into stone all upon whom you look. But I should 
like to have a close look at you, and to talk to you before 
I turn into stone,” he added in a spirit of playfulness that 
concealed his real misgivings. 

Approaching him, he examined closely Lazarus’ face and 
his strange festive clothes. Though his eyes were sharp and 
keen, he was deceived by the skilful counterfeit. 

“Well, your appearance is not terrible, venerable sir. 
But all the worse for men, when the terrible takes on such 
' a venerable and pleasant appearance. Now let us talk.” 

Augustus sat down, and as much by glance as by words 
began the discussion. “Why did you not salute me when 
you entered?” 

f, Lazarus answered indifferently: “I did not know it was 
necessary.” 

“You are a Christian?” 

“No.” 

Augustus nodded approvingly. “That is good. I do not 


232 BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 

like the Christians. They shake the tree of life, forbidding 
it to bear fruit, and they scatter to the wind its fragrant 
blossoms. But who are you?” 

With some effort Lazarus answered: “I was dead.” 

“I heard about that. But who are you now?” 

Lazarus’ answer came slowly. Finally he said again, list¬ 
lessly and indistinctly: “I was dead.” 

“Listen to me, stranger,” said the Emperor sharply, giv¬ 
ing expression to what had been in his mind before. “My 
empire is an empire of the living; my people are a people of 
the living and not of the dead. You are superfluous here. 
I do not know who you are, I do not know what you have 
seen There, but if you lie, I hate your lies, and if you tell 
the truth, I hate your truth. In my heart I feel the pulse of 
life; in my hands I feel power, and my proud thoughts, like 
eagles, fly through space. Behind my back, under the pro¬ 
tection of my authority, under the shadow of the laws I 
have created, men live and labour and rejoice. Do you 
hear this divine harmony of life? Do you hear the war cry 
that men hurl into the face of the future, challenging it to 
strife?” 

Augustus extended his arms reverently and solemnly cried 
out: “Blessed art thou, Great Divine Life!” 

But Lazarus was silent, and the Emperor continued more 
severely: “You are not wanted here. Pitiful remnant, 
half devoured of death, you fill men with distress and aver¬ 
sion to life. Like a caterpillar on the fields, you are gnaw¬ 
ing away at the full seed of joy, exuding the slime of de¬ 
spair and sorrow. Your truth is like a rusted sword in 
the hands of a night assassin, and I shall condemn you to 
death as an assassin. But first I want to look into your 
eyes. Mayhap only cowards fear them, and brave men 
are spurred on to struggle and victory. Then will you 
merit not death but a reward. Look at me, Lazarus.” 

At first it seemed to divine Augustus as if a friend were 
looking at him, so soft, so alluring, so gently fascinating 
was the gaze of Lazarus. It promised not horror but quiet 
rest, and the Infinite dwelt there as a fond mistress, a com¬ 
passionate sister, a mother. And ever stronger grew its 
gentle embrace, until he felt, as it were, the breath of a 


LAZARUS 


233 


mouth hungry for kisses. . . . Then it seemed as if iron 
bones protruded in a ravenous grip, and closed upon him in 
an iron band; and cold nails touched his heart, and slowly, 
slowly sank into it. 

“It pains me,” said divine Augustus, growing pale; “but 
look, Lazarus, look!” 

Ponderous gates, shutting off eternity, appeared to be 
slowly swinging open, and through the growing aperture 
poured in, coldly and calmly, the awful horror of the Infinite. 
Boundless Emptiness and Boundless Gloom entered like two 
shadows, extinguishing the sun, removing the ground from 
under the feet, and the cover from over the head. And the 
pain in his icy heart ceased. 

“Look at me, look at me, Lazarus!” commanded Augus¬ 
tus, staggering. . . . 

Time ceased and the beginning of things came perilously 
near to the end. The throne of Augustus, so recently 
erected, fell to pieces, and emptiness took the place of the 
throne and of Augustus. Rome fell silently into ruins. A 
new city rose in its place, and it too was erased by empti¬ 
ness. Like phantom giants, cities, kingdoms, and coun¬ 
tries swiftly fell and disappeared into emptiness—swallowed 
up in the black maw of the Infinite. . . . 

“Cease,” commanded the Emperor. Already the accent 
of indifference was in his voice. His arms hung powerless, 
and his eagle eyes flashed and were dimmed again, strug¬ 
gling against overwhelming darkness. 

“You have killed me, Lazarus,” he said drowsily. 

These words of despair saved him. He thought of the 
people, whose shield he was destined to be, and a sharp, re¬ 
deeming pang pierced his dull heart. He thought of them 
doomed to perish, and he was filled with anguish. First 
they seemed bright shadows in the gloom of the Infinite. 
—How terrible! Then they appeared as fragile vessels with 
life-agitated blood, and hearts that knew both sorrow and 
great joy.—And he thought of them with tenderness. 

And so thinking and feeling, inclining the scales now to 
the side of life, now to the side of death, he slowly returned 
to life, to find in its suffering and joy a refuge from the 
gloom, emptiness and fear of the Infinite. 


234 


BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 


“No, you did not kill me, Lazarus,” said he firmly. “But 
I will kill you. Go!” 

Evening came and divine Augustus partook of food and 
drink with great joy. But there were moments when his 
raised arm would remain suspended in the air, and the light 
of his shining, eager eyes was dimmed. It seemed as if 
an icy wave of horror washed against his feet. He was 
vanquished but not killed, and coldly awaited his doom, 
like a black shadow. His nights were haunted by horror, 
but the bright days still brought him the joys, as well as 
the sorrows, of life. 

Next day, by order of the Emperor, they burned out 
Lazarus’ eyes with hot irons and sent him home. Even 
Augustus dared not kill him. 

Lazarus returned to the desert and the desert received him 
with the breath of the hissing wind and the ardour of the 
glowing sun. Again he sat on the stone with matted beard 
uplifted; and two black holes, where the eyes had once 
been, looked dull and horrible at the sky. In the distance 
the Holy City surged and roared restlessly, but near him all 
was deserted and still. No one approached the place where 
Lazarus, miraculously raised from the dead, passed his 
last days, for his neighbours had long since abandoned their 
homes. His cursed knowledge, driven by the hot irons from 
his eyes deep into the brain, lay there in ambush; as if 
from ambush it might spring out upon men with a thousand 
unseen eyes. No one dared to look at Lazarus. 

And in the evening, when the sun, swollen crimson and 
growing larger, bent its way toward the west, blind Lazarus 
slowly groped after it. He stumbled against stones and fell; 
corpulent and feeble, he rose heavily and walked on; and 
against the red curtain of sunset his dark form and out¬ 
stretched arms gave him the semblance of a cross. 

It happened once that he went and never returned. Thus 
ended the second life of Lazarus, who for three days had 
been in the mysterious thraldom of death and then was 
miraculously raised from the dead. 


THE REVOLUTIONIST 

By Mikhail P. Artzybashev 

I 

G ABRIEL ANDERSEN, the teacher, walked to the edge 
of the school garden, where he paused, undecided what 
to do. Off in the distance, two miles away, the woods hung 
like bluish lace over a field of pure snow. It was a brilliant 
day. A hundred tints glistened on the white ground and the 
iron bars of the garden railing. There was a lightness and 
transparency in the air that only the days of early spring 
possess. Gabriel Andersen turned his steps toward the 
fringe of blue lace for a tramp in the woods. 

“Another spring in my life,” he said, breathing deep and 
peering up at the heavens through his spectacles. Ander¬ 
sen was rather given to sentimental poetising. He walked 
with his hands folded behind him, dangling his cane. 

He had gone but a few paces when he noticed a group of 
soldiers and horses on the road beyond the garden rail. 
Their drab uniforms stood out dully against the white of the 
snow, but their swords and horses’ coats tossed back the 
light. Their bowed cavalry legs moved awkwardly on the 
snow. Andersen wondered what they were doing there. 
Suddenly the nature of their business flashed upon him. It 
was an ugly errand they were upon, an instinct rather than 
his reason told him. Something unusual and terrible was 
to happen. And the same instinct told him he must 
conceal himself from the soldiers. He turned to the left 
quickly, dropped on his knees, and crawled on the soft, 
thawing, crackling snow to a low haystack, from behind 
which, by craning his neck, he could watch what the sol¬ 
diers were doing. 

There were twelve of them, one a stocky young officer in 
a grey cloak caught in prettily at the waist by a silver belt. 
His face was so red that even at that distance Andersen 

235 


236 


BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 


caught the odd, whitish gleam of his light protruding mous¬ 
tache and eyebrows against the vivid colour of his skin. 
The broken tones of his raucous voice reached distinctly to 
where the teacher, listening intently, lay hidden. 

“I know what I am about. I don’t need anybody’s ad¬ 
vice,” the officer cried. He clapped his arms akimbo and 
looked down at some one among the group of bustling sol¬ 
diers. “I’ll show you how to be a rebel, you damned skunk.” 

Andersen’s heart beat fast. “Good heavens!” he thought. 
“Is it possible?” His head grew chill as if struck by a 
cold wave. 

“Officer,” a quiet, restrained, yet distinct voice came from 
among the soldiers, “you have no right—it’s for the court 
to decide—you aren’t a judge—it’s plain murder, not-” 

“Silence!” thundered the officer, his voice choking with 
rage. “I’ll give you a court. Ivanov, go ahead.” 

He put the spurs to his horse and rode away. Gabriel 
Andersen mechanically observed how carefully the horse 
picked its way, placing its feet daintily as if for the steps 
of a minuet. Its ears were pricked to catch every sound. 
There was momentary bustle and excitement among the sol¬ 
diers. Then they dispersed in different directions, leaving 
three persons in black behind, two tall men and one very 
short and frail. Andersen could see the hair of the short 
one’s head. It was very light. And he saw his rosy ears 
sticking out on each side. 

Now he fully understood what was to happen. But it 
was a thing so out of the ordinary, so horrible, that he 
fancied he was dreaming. 

“It’s so bright, so beautiful—the snow, the field, the 
woods, the sky. The breath of spring is upon everything. 
Yet people are going to be killed. How can it be? Im¬ 
possible!” So his thoughts ran in confusion. He had the 
sensation of a man suddenly gone insane, who finds he sees, 
hears and feels what he is not accustomed to, and ought not 
hear, see and feel. 

The three men in black stood next to one another hard 
by the railing, two quite close together, the short one some 
distance away. 

“Officer!” one of them cried in a desperate voice—Ander- 





THE REVOLUTIONIST 


237 


sen could not see which it was—“God sees us! Officer!” 

Eight soldiers dismounted quickly, their spurs and sabres 
catching awkwardly. Evidently they were in a hurry, as 
if doing a thief’s job. 

Several seconds passed in silence until the soldiers placed 
themselves in a row a few feet from the black figures and 
levelled their guns. In doing so one soldier knocked his 
cap from his head. He picked it up and put it on again 
without brushing off the wet snow. 

The officer’s mount still kept dancing on one spot with 
his ears pricked, while the other horses, also with sharp 
ears erect to catch every sound, stood motionless looking 
at the men in black, their long wise heads inclined to one 
side. 

“Spare the boy at least!” another voice suddenly pierced 
the air. “Why kill a child, damn you! What has the 
child done?” 

“Ivanov, do what I told you to do,” thundered the 
officer, drowning the other voice. His face turned as scarlet 
as a piece of red flannel. 

There followed a scene savage and repulsive in its 
gruesomeness. The short figure in black, with the light 
hair and the rosy ears, uttered a wild shriek in a shrill 
child’s tones and reeled to one side. Instantly it was caught 
up by two or three soldiers. But the boy began to struggle, 
and two more soldiers ran up. 

“Ow-ow-ow-ow!” the boy cried. “Let me go, let me 
go! Ow-owl ” 

His shrill voice cut the air like the yell of a stuck 
porkling not quite done to death. Suddenly he grew quiet. 
Some one must have struck him. An unexpected, oppres¬ 
sive silence ensued. The boy was being pushed forward. 
Then there came a deafening report. Andersen started 
back all in a tremble. He saw distinctly, yet vaguely as 
in a dream, the dropping of two dark bodies, the flash of 
pale sparks, and a light smoke rising in the clean, bright 
atmosphere. He saw the soldiers hastily mounting their 
horses without even glancing at the bodies. He saw them 
galloping along the muddy road, their arms clanking, their 
horses’ hoofs clattering. 


238 BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 

He saw all this, himself now standing in the middle of 
the road, not knowing when and why he had jumped from 
behind the haystack. He was deathly pale. His face was 
covered with dank sweat, his body was aquiver. A physical 
sadness smote and tortured him. He could not make out 
the nature of the feeling. It was akin to extreme sick¬ 
ness, though far more nauseating and terrible. 

After the soldiers had disappeared beyond the bend 
toward the woods, people came hurrying to the spot of 
the shooting, though till then not a soul had been in sight. 

The bodies lay at the roadside on the other side of the 
railing, where the snow was clean, brittle and untrampled 
and glistened cheerfully in the bright atmosphere. There 
were three dead bodies, two men and a boy. The boy lay 
with his long soft neck stretched on the snow. The face 
of the man next to the boy was invisible. He had fallen 
face downward in a pool of blood. The third was a big 
man with a black beard and huge, muscular arms. He lay 
stretched out to the full length of his big body, his arms 
extended over a large area of blood-stained snow. 

The three men who had been shot lay black against 
the white snow, motionless. From afar no one could have 
told the terror that was in their immobility as they lay there 
at the edge of the narrow road crowded with people. 

That night Gabriel Andersen in his little room in the 
schoolhouse did not write poems as usual. He stood at the 
window and looked at the distant pale disk of the moon 
in the misty blue sky, and thought. And his thoughts were 
confused, gloomy, and heavy as if a cloud had descended 
upon his brain. 

Indistinctly outlined in the dull moonlight he saw the 
dark railing, the trees, the empty garden. It seemed to him 
that he beheld them—the three men who had been shot, two 
grown up, one a child. They were lying there now at the 
roadside, in the empty, silent field, looking at the far-off cold 
moon with their dead, white eyes as he with his living eyes. 

“The time will come some day,” he thought, “when the 
killing of people by others will be an utter impossibility. 
The time will come when even the soldiers and officers who> 
killed these three men will realise what they have done 




THE REVOLUTIONIST 


239 


and will understand that what they killed them for is just 
as necessary, important, and dear to them—to the officers 
and soldiers—as to those whom they killed. 

“Yes,” he said aloud and solemnly, his eyes moistening, 
“that time will come. They will understand.” And the 
pale disk of the moon was blotted out by the moisture in 
his eyes. 

A large pity pierced his heart for the three victims whose 
eyes looked at the moon, sad and unseeing. A feeling of rage 
cut him as with a sharp knife and took possession of him. 

But Gabriel Andersen quieted his heart, whispering 
softly, “They know not what they do.” And this old and 
ready phrase gave him the strength to stifle his rage and 
indignation. 

II 

The day was as bright and white, but the spring was 
already advanced. The wet soil smelt of spring. Clear cold 
water ran everywhere from under the loose, thawing snow. 
The branches of the trees were springy and elastic. For 
miles and miles around, the country opened up in clear 
azure stretches. 

Yet the clearness and the joy of the spring day were 
not in the village. They were somewhere outside the vil¬ 
lage, where there were no people—in the fields, the woods 
and the mountains. In the village the air was stifling, heavy 
and terrible as in a nightmare. 

Gabriel Andersen stood in the road near a crowd of dark, 
sad, absent-minded people and craned his neck to see the 
preparations for the flogging of seven peasants. 

They stood in the thawing snow, and Gabriel Andersen 
could not persuade himself that they were people whom 
he had long known and understood. By that which was 
about to happen to them, the shameful, terrible, ineradicable 
thing that was to happen to them, they were separated 
from all the rest of the world, and so were unable to feel 
what he, Gabriel Andersen, felt, just as he was unable to 
feel what they felt Round them were the soldiers, con¬ 
fidently and beautifully mounted on high upon their large 
steeds, who tossed their wise heads and ‘turned their 


240 


BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 


dappled wooden faces slowly from side to side, looking con¬ 
temptuously at him, Gabriel Andersen, who was soon to 
behold this horror, this disgrace, and would do nothing, 
would not dare to do anything. So it seemed to Gabriel 
Andersen; and a sense of cold, intolerable shame gripped 
him as between two clamps of ice through which he could 
see everything without being able to move, cry out or 
utter a groan. 

They took the first peasant. Gabriel Andersen saw his 
strange, imploring, hopeless look. His lips moved, but no 
sound was heard, and his eyes wandered. There was a 
bright gleam in them as in the eyes of a madman. His 
mind, it was evident, was no longer able to comprehend 
what was happening. 

And so terrible was that face, at once full of reason 
and of madness, that Andersen felt relieved when they 
put him face downward on the snow and, instead of the 
fiery eyes, he saw his bare back glistening—a senseless, 
shameful, horrible sight. 

The large, red-faced soldier in a red cap pushed toward 
him, looked down at his body with seeming delight, and 
then cried in a clear voice: 

“Well, let her go, with God’s blessing!” 

Andersen seemed not to see the soldiers, the sky, the 
horses or the crowd. He did not feel the cold, the terror 
or the shame. He did not hear the swish of the knout in 
the air or the savage howl of pain and despair. He only 
saw the bare back of a man’s body swelling up and cov¬ 
ered over evenly with white and purple stripes. Gradu¬ 
ally the bare back lost the semblance of human flesh. 
The blood oozed and squirted, forming patches, drops and 
rivulets, which ran down on the white, thawing snow. 

Terror gripped the soul of Gabriel Andersen as he 
thought of the moment when the man would rise and 
face all the people who had seen his body bared out in the 
open and reduced to a bloody pulp. He closed his eyes. 
When he opened them, he saw four soldiers in uniform 
and red hats forcing another man down on the snow, his 
back bared just as shamefully, terribly and absurdly—a 
ludicrously tragic sight. 



THE REVOLUTIONIST 


241 


Then came the third, the fourth, and so on, to the end. 

And Gabriel Andersen stood on the wet, thawing snow, 
craning his neck, trembling and stuttering, though he did 
not say a word. Dank sweat poured from his body. A 
sense of shame permeated his whole being. It was a 
humiliating feeling, having to escape being noticed so that 
they should not catch him and lay him there on the snow 
and strip him bare—him, Gabriel Andersen. 

The soldiers pressed and crowded, the horses tossed 
their heads, the knout swished in the air, and the bare, 
shamed human flesh swelled up, tore, ran over with blood, 
and curled like a snake. Oaths, wild shrieks rained upon 
the village through the clean white air of that spring day. 

Andersen now saw five men’s faces at the steps of the 
town hall, the faces of those men who had already under¬ 
gone their shame. He quickly turned his eyes away. After 
seeing this a man must die, he thought 


m 

There were seventeen of them, fifteen soldiers, a 
subaltern and a young beardless officer. The officer lay in 
front of the fire looking intently into the flames. The 
soldiers were tinkering with the firearms in the wagon. 

Their grey figures moved about quietly on the black thaw¬ 
ing ground, and occasionally stumbled across the logs stick¬ 
ing out from the blazing fire. 

Gabriel Andersen, wearing an overcoat and carrying his 
cane behind his back, approached them. The subaltern, a 
stout fellow with a moustache, jumped up, turned from the 
fire, and looked at him. 

“Who are you? What do you want?” he asked excitedly. 
From his tone it was evident that the soldiers feared every¬ 
body in that district, through which they went scattering 
death, destruction and torture. 

“Officer,” he said, “there is a man here I don’t know.” 

The officer looked at Andersen without speaking. 

“Officer,” said Andersen in a thin, strained voice, “my 
name is Michelson. I am a business man here, and I am 


242 


BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 


going to the village on business. I was afraid I might be 
mistaken for some one else—you know.” 

“Then what are you nosing about here for?” the officer 
said angrily, and turned away. 

“A business man,” sneered a soldier. “He ought to be 
searched, this business man ought, so as not to be knocking 
about at night. A good one in the jaw is what he needs.” 

“He’s a suspicious character, officer,” said the subaltern. 
“Don’t you think we’d better arrest him, what?” 

“Don’t,” answered the officer lazily. “I’m sick of them, 
damn ’em.” 

Gabriel Andersen stood there without saying anything. 
His eyes flashed strangely in the dark by the firelight. And 
it was strange to see his short, substantial, clean, neat figure 
in the field at night among the soldiers, with his overcoat 
and cane and glasses glistening in the firelight. 

The soldiers left him and walked away. Gabriel Ander¬ 
sen remained standing for a while. Then he turned and 
left, rapidly disappearing in the darkness. 

The night was drawing to a close. The air turned chilly, 
and the tops of the bushes defined themselves more clearly 
in the dark. Gabriel Andersen went again to the military 
post. But this time he hid, crouching low as he made his 
way under the cover of the bushes. Behind him people 
moved about quietly and carefully, bending the bushes, si¬ 
lent as shadows. Next to Gabriel, on his right, walked a 
tall man with a revolver in his hand. 

The figure of a soldier on the hill outlined itself strangely, 
unexpectedly, not where they had been looking for it. It 
was faintly illumined by the gleam from the dying fire. 
Gabriel Andersen recognised the soldier. It was the one 
who had proposed that he should be searched. Nothing 
stirred in Andersen’s heart. His face was cold and motion¬ 
less, as of a man who is asleep. Round the fire the soldiers 
lay stretched out sleeping, all except the subaltern, who sat 
with his head drooping over his knees. 

The tall thin man on Andersen’s right raised the revolver 
and pulled the trigger. A momentary blinding flash, a deaf¬ 
ening report. 

Andersen saw the guard lift his hands and then sit down 



THE REVOLUTIONIST 


243 


on the ground clasping his bosom. From all directions short, 
crackling sparks flashed up which combined into one riving 
roar. The subaltern jumped up and dropped straight into 
the fire. Grey soldiers’ figures moved about in all directions 
like apparitions, throwing up their hands and falling and 
writhing on the black earth. The young officer ran 
past Andersen, fluttering his hands like some strange, fright¬ 
ened bird. Andersen, as if he were thinking of something else, 
raised his cane. With all his strength he hit the officer on the 
head, each blow descending with a dull, ugly thud. The offi¬ 
cer reeled in a circle, struck a bush, and sat down after the 
second blow, covering his head with both hands, as children 
do. Some one ran up and discharged a revolver as if from 
Andersen’s own hand. The officer sank together in a heap 
and lunged with great force head foremost on the ground. 
His legs twitched for a while, then he curled up quietly. 

The shots ceased. Black men with white faces, ghostly 
grey in the dark, moved about the dead bodies of the sol¬ 
diers, taking away their arms and ammunition. 

Andersen watched all this with a cold, attentive stare. 
When all was over, he went up, took hold of the burned 
subaltern’s legs, and tried to remove the body from the fire. 
But it was too heavy for him, and he let it go. 


IV 

Andersen sat motionless on the steps of the town hall, 
and thought. He thought of how he, Gabriel Andersen, 
with his spectacles, cane, overcoat and poems, had lied and 
betrayed fifteen men. He thought it was terrible, yet there 
was neither pity, shame nor regret in his heart. Were he to 
be set free, he knew that he, Gabriel Andersen, with the 
spectacles and poems, would go straightway and do it again. 
He tried to examine himself, to see what was going on inside 
his soul. But his thoughts were heavy and confused. For 
some reason it was more painful for -him to think of the 
three men lying on the snow, looking at the pale disk of 
the far-off moon with their dead, unseeing eyes, than of the 
murdered officer whom he had struck two dry, ugly blows on 


244 


BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 


the head. Of his own death he did not think. It seemed 
to him that he had done with everything long, long ago. 
Something had died, had gone out and left him empty, and 
he must not think about it. 

And when they grabbed him by the shoulder and he rose, 
and they quickly led him through the garden where the cab¬ 
bages raised their dry heads, he could not formulate a single 
thought. 

He was conducted to the road and placed at the railing 
with his back to one of the iron bars. He fixed his spec¬ 
tacles, put his hands behind him, and stood there with his 
neat, stocky body, his head slightly inclined to one side. 

At the last moment he looked in front of him and saw 
rifle barrels pointing at his head, chest and stomach, and 
pale faces with trembling lips. He distinctly saw how one 
barrel levelled at his forehead suddenly dropped. 

Something strange and incomprehensible, as if no longer 
of this world, no longer earthly, passed through Andersen’s 
mind. He straightened himself to the full height of his 
short body and threw back his head in simple pride. A 
strange indistinct sense of cleanness, strength and pride filled 
his soul, and everything—the sun and the sky and the 
people and the field and death—seemed to him insignifi¬ 
cant, remote and useless. 

The bullets hit him in the chest, in the left eye, in the 
stomach, went through his clean coat buttoned all the way 
up. His glasses shivered into bits. He uttered a shriek, 
circled round, and fell with his face against one of the iron 
bars, his one remaining eye wide open. He clawed the 
ground with his outstretched hands as if trying to support 
himself. 

The officer, who had turned green, rushed toward him, 
and senselessly thrust the revolver against his neck, and fired 
twice. Andersen stretched out on the ground. 

The soldiers left quickly. But Andersen remained pressed 
flat to the ground. The index finger of his left hand con¬ 
tinued to quiver for about ten seconds. 




THE OUTRAGE—A TRUE STORY 

By Aleksandr I. Kuprin 

I T was five o’clock on a July afternoon. The heat was 
terrible. The whole of the huge stone-built town 
breathed out heat like a glowing furnace. The glare of the 
white-walled house was insufferable. The asphalt pavements 
grew soft and burned the feet. The shadows of the acacias 
spread over the cobbled road, pitiful and weary. They too 
seemed hot. The sea, pale in the sunlight, lay heavy and 
immobile as one dead. Over the streets hung a white dust. 

In the foyer of one of the private theatres a small com¬ 
mittee of local barristers who had undertaken to conduct 
the cases of those who had suffered in the last pogrom 
against the Jews was reaching the end of its daily task. 
There were nineteen of them, all juniors, young, progressive 
and conscientious men. The sitting was without formality, 
and white suits of duck, flannel and alpaca were in the 
majority. They sat anywhere, at little marble tables, and 
the chairman stood in front of an empty counter where 
chocolates were sold in the winter. 

The barristers were quite exhausted by the heat which 
poured in through the windows, with the dazzling sunlight 
and the noise of the streets. The proceedings went lazily 
and with a certain irritation. 

A tall young man with a fair moustache and thin hair was 
in the chair. He was dreaming voluptuously how he would 
be off in an instant on his new-bought bicycle to the bunga¬ 
low. He would undress quickly, and without waiting to cool, 
still bathed in sweat, would fling himself into the clear, 
cold, sweet-smelling sea. His whole body was enervated 
and tense, thrilled by the thought. Impatiently moving the 
papers before him, he spoke in a drowsy voice. 

“So, Joseph Moritzovich will conduct the case of Rubin- 
chik. . . . Perhaps there is still a statement to be made 
on the order of the day?” 


245 


BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 


246 

His youngest colleague, a short, stout Karaite, very black 
and lively, said in a whisper so that every one could hear: 
“On the order of the day, the best thing would be iced 
kvas. . . 

The chairman gave him a stem side-glance, but could not 
restrain a smile. He sighed and put both his hands on the 
table to raise himself and declare the meeting closed, when 
the doorkeeper, who stood at the entrance to the theatre, 
suddenly moved forward and said: “There are seven people 
outside, sir. They want to come in.” 

The chairman looked impatiently round the company. 

“What is to be done, gentlemen?” 

Voices were heard. 

“Next time. Basta 1 ” 

“Let ’em put it in writing.” 

“If they’ll get it over quickly. . . . Decide it at once.” 

“Let’em go to the devil. Phew! It’s like boiling pitch.” 

“Let them in.” The chairman gave a sign with his head, 
annoyed. “Then bring me a Vichy, please. But it must 
be cold.” 

The porter opened the door and called down the corridor: 
“Come in. They say you may.” 

Then seven of the most surprising and unexpected indi¬ 
viduals filed into the foyer. First appeared a full-grown, con¬ 
fident man in a smart suit, of the colour of dry sea-sand, in 
a magnificent pink shirt with white stripes and a crimson 
rose in his buttonhole. From the front his head looked like 
an upright bean, from the side like a horizontal bean. His 
face was adorned with a strong, bushy, martial moustache. 
He wore dark blue pince-nez on ,his nose, on his hands straw- 
coloured gloves. In his left hand he held a black walking- 
stick with a silver mount, in his right a light blue handker¬ 
chief. 

The other six produced a strange, chaotic, incongruous 
impression, exactly as though they had all hastily pooled 
not merely their clothes, but their hands, feet and heads 
as well. There was a man with the splendid profile of a 
Roman senator, dressed in rags and tatters. Another wore 
an elegant dress waistcoat, from the deep opening of which 
a dirty Little-Russian shirt leapt to the eye. Here were 




THE OUTRAGE—A TRUE STORY 


247 


the unbalanced faces of the criminal type, but looking with 
a confidence that nothing could shake. All these men, in 
spite of their apparent youth, evidently possessed a large 
experience of life, an easy manner, a bold approach, and 
some hidden, suspicious cunning. 

The gentleman in the sandy suit bowed just his head, 
neatly and easily, and said with a half-question in his voice: 
“Mr. Chairman ?” 

“Yes. I am the chairman. What is your busi¬ 
ness ?” 

“We—all whom you see before you,” the gentleman began 
in a quiet voice and turned round to indicate his compan¬ 
ions, “we come as delegates from the United Rostov-Khar- 
kov-and-Odessa-Nikolayev Association of Thieves.” 

The barristers began to shift in their seats. 

The chairman flung himself back and opened his eyes 
wide. “Association of what?” he said, perplexed. 

“The Association of Thieves,” the gentleman in the sandy 
suit coolly repeated. “As for myself, my comrades did me 
the signal honour of electing me as the spokesman of the 
deputation.” 

“Very . . . pleased,” the chairman said uncertainly. 

“Thank you. All seven of us are ordinary thieves—natu¬ 
rally of different departments. The Association has author¬ 
ised us to put before your esteemed Committee”—the gen¬ 
tleman again made an elegant bow—“our respectful de¬ 
mand for assistance.” 

“I don’t quite understand . . . quite frankly . . . what 
is the connection. . . .” The chairman waved his hands 
helplessly. “However, please go on.” 

“The matter about which we have the courage and the 
honour to apply to you, gentlemen, is very clear, very 
simple, and very brief. It will take only six or seven 
minutes. I consider it my duty to warn you of this be¬ 
forehand, in view of the late hour and the 115 degrees that 
Fahrenheit marks in the shade.” The orator expectorated 
slightly and glanced at his superb gold watch. “You see, in 
the reports that have lately appeared in the local papers of 
the melancholy and terrible days of the last pogrom, there 
have very often been indications that among the instigators 


248 


BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 


of the pogrom who were paid and organised by the police 
—the dregs of society, consisting of drunkards, tramps, sou¬ 
teneurs, and hooligans from the slums—thieves were also to 
be found. At first we were silent, but finally we considered 
ourselves under the necessity of protesting against such an 
unjust and serious accusation, before the face of the whole 
of intellectual society. I know well that in the eye of the 
law we are offenders and enemies of society. But imagine 
only for a moment, gentlemen, the situation of this enemy 
of society when he is accused wholesale of an offence which 
he not only never committed, but which he is ready to resist 
with the whole strength of his soul. It goes without saying 
that he will feel the outrage of such an injustice more keenly 
than a normal, average, fortunate citizen. Now, we declare 
that the accusation brought against us is utterly devoid of all 
basis, not merely of fact but even of logic. I intend to 
prove this in a few words if the honourable committee will 
kindly listen.” 

“Proceed,” said the chairman. 

“Please do . . . Please . . .” was heard from the bar¬ 
risters, now animated. 

“I offer you my sincere thanks in the name of all my com¬ 
rades. Believe me, you will never repent your attention to 
the representatives of our . . . well, let us say, slippery, but 
nevertheless difficult, profession. ‘So we begin/ as Giral- 
doni sings in the prologue to Pagliacci. 

“But first I would ask your permission, Mr. Chairman, to 
quench my thirst a little. . . . Porter, bring me a lemonade 
and a glass of English bitter, there’s a good fellow. Gentle¬ 
men, I will not speak of the moral aspect of our profession 
nor of its social importance. Doubtless you know better 
than I the striking and brilliant paradox of Proudhon: La 
propriety Pest le vol —a paradox if you like, but one that has 
never yet been refuted by the sermons of cowardly bour¬ 
geois or fat priests. For instance: a father accumulates a 
million by energetic and clever exploitation, and leaves it 
to his son—a rickety, lazy, ignorant, degenerate idiot, a 
brainless maggot, a true parasite. Potentially a million ru¬ 
bles is a million working days, the absolutely irrational right 
to labour, sweat, life, and blood of a terrible number of 



THE OUTRAGE—A TRUE STORY 


249 


men. Why? What is the ground of reason? Utterly un¬ 
known. Then why not agree with the proposition, gentle¬ 
men, that our profession is to some extent as it were a cor¬ 
rection of the excessive accumulation of values in the hands 
of individuals, and serves as a protest against all the hard¬ 
ships, abominations, arbitrariness, violence, and negligence 
of the human personality, against all the monstrosities cre¬ 
ated by the bourgeois capitalistic organisation of modern 
society? Sooner or later, this order of things will assuredly 
be overturned by the social revolution. Property will pass 
away into the limbo of melancholy memories and with it, 
alas! we will disappear from the face of the earth, we, les 
braves chevaliers d?Industrie” 

The orator paused to take the tray from the hands of 
the porter, and placed it near to his hand on the table. 

“Excuse me, gentlemen. . . . Here, my good man, take 
this, . . . and by the way, when you go out shut the door 
close behind you.” 

“Very good, your Excellency!” the porter bawled in jest. 

The orator drank off half a glass and continued: “However, 
let us leave aside the philosophical, social, and economic 
aspects of the question. I do not wish to fatigue your at¬ 
tention. I must nevertheless point out that our profession 
very closely approaches the idea of that which is called art. 
Into it enter all the elements which go to form art—voca¬ 
tion, inspiration, fantasy, inventiveness, ambition, and a 
long and arduous apprenticeship to the science. From it is 
absent virtue alone, concerning which the great Karamzin 
wrote with such stupendous and fiery fascination. Gentle¬ 
men, nothing is further from my intention than to trifle with 
you and waste your precious time with idle paradoxes; but 
I cannot avoid expounding my idea briefly. To an outsider’s 
ear it sounds absurdly wild and ridiculous to speak of the 
vocation of a thief. However, I venture to assure you that 
this vocation is a reality. There are men who possess a 
peculiarly strong visual memory, sharpness and accuracy of 
eye, presence of mind, dexterity of hand, and above all a 
subtle sense of touch, who are as it were bom into God’s 
world for the sole and special purpose of becoming dis¬ 
tinguished card-sharpers. The pickpockets’ profession de- 


250 


BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 


mands extraordinary nimbleness and agility, a terrific cer¬ 
tainty of movement, not to mention a ready wit, a talent 
for observation and strained attention. Some have a posi¬ 
tive vocation for breaking open safes: from their tenderest 
childhood they are attracted by the mysteries of every kind 
of complicated mechanism—bicycles, sewing machines, 
clock-work toys and watches. Finally, gentlemen, there are 
people with an hereditary animus against private property. 
You may call this phenomenon degeneracy. But I tell you 
that you cannot entice a true thief, and thief by vocation, 
into the prose of honest vegetation by any gingerbread re¬ 
ward, or by the offer of a secure position, or by the gift of 
money, or by a woman’s love: because there is here a per¬ 
manent beauty of risk, a fascinating abyss of danger, the 
delightful sinking of the heart, the impetuous pulsation of 
life, the ecstasy! You are armed with the protection of the 
law, by locks, revolvers, telephones, police and soldiery; but 
we only by our own dexterity, cunning and fearlessness. We 
are the foxes, and society—is a chicken-run guarded by 
dogs. Are you aware that the most artistic and gifted na¬ 
tures in our villages become horse-thieves and poachers? 
What would you have? Life is so meagre, so insipid, so in¬ 
tolerably dull to eager and high-spirited souls! 

“I pass on to inspiration. Gentlemen, doubtless you have 
had to read of thefts that were supernatural in design and 
execution. In the headlines of the newspapers they are 
called ‘An Amazing Robbery,’ or ‘An Ingenious Swindle,’ 
or again ‘A Clever Ruse of the Gangsters.’ In such cases 
our bourgeois paterfamilias waves his hands and exclaims: 
‘What a terrible thing! If only their abilities were turned to 
good—their inventiveness, their amazing knowledge of hu¬ 
man psychology, their self-possession, their fearlessness, their 
incomparable histrionic powers! What extraordinary bene¬ 
fits they would bring to the country!’ But it is well known 
that the bourgeois paterfamilias was specially devised by 
Heaven to utter commonplaces and trivialities. I myself 
sometimes—we thieves are sentimental people, I confess— 
I myself sometimes admire a beautiful sunset in Aleksandra 
Park or by the sea-shore. And I am always certain before¬ 
hand that some one near me will say with infallible aplomb : 




THE OUTRAGE—A TRUE STORY 


251 


‘Look at it. If it were put into picture no one would ever 
believe it! ’ I turn round and naturally I see a self-satisfied, 
full-fed paterfamilias, who delights in repeating some one 
else’s silly statement as though it were his own. As for our 
dear country, the bourgeois paterfamilias looks upon it as 
though it were a roast turkey. If you’ve managed to cut the 
best part of the bird for yourself, eat it quietly in a com¬ 
fortable comer and praise God. But he’s not really the im¬ 
portant person. I was led away by my detestation of vul¬ 
garity and I apologise for the digression. The real point is 
that genius and inspiration, even when they are not devoted 
to the service of the Orthodox Church, remain rare and beau¬ 
tiful things. Progress is a law—and theft too has its crea¬ 
tion. 

“Finally, our profession is by no means as easy and 
pleasant as it seems to the first glance. It demands long 
experience, constant practice, slow and painful apprentice¬ 
ship. It comprises in itself hundreds of supple, skilful pro¬ 
cesses that the cleverest juggler cannot compass. That I may 
not give you only empty words, gentlemen, I will perform 
a few experiments before you now. I ask you to have 
every confidence in the demonstrators. We are all at present 
in the enjoyment of legal freedom, and though we are usually 
watched, and every one of us is known by face, and our 
photographs adorn the albums of all detective departments, 
for the time being we are not under the necessity of hiding 
ourselves from anybody. If any one of you should recog¬ 
nise any of us in the future under different circumstances, 
we ask you earnestly always to act in accordance with your 
professional duties and your obligations as citizens. In grate¬ 
ful return for your kind attention we have decided to de¬ 
clare your property inviolable, and to invest it with a 
thieves’ taboo. However, I proceed to business.” 

The orator turned round and gave an order: “Sesoi the 
Great, will you come this way!” 

An enormous fellow with a stoop, whose hands reached to 
his knees, without a forehead or a neck, like a big, fair Her¬ 
cules, came forward. He grinned stupidly and rubbed his 
left eyebrow in his confusion. 

“Can’t do nothin’ here,” he said hoarsely. 


252 


BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 


The gentleman in the sandy suit spoke for him, turn¬ 
ing to the committee. 

“Gentlemen, before you stands a respected member of our 
association. His specialty is breaking open safes, iron strong 
boxes, and other receptacles for monetary tokens. In his 
night work he sometimes avails himself of the electric cur¬ 
rent of the lighting installation for fusing metals. Unfor¬ 
tunately he has nothing on which he can demonstrate the 
best items of his repertoire. He will open the most elab¬ 
orate lock irreproachably. ... By the way, this door here, 
it’s locked, is it not? ” 

Every one turned to look at the door, on which a printed 
notice hung: “Stage Door. Strictly Private.” 

“Yes, the door’s locked, evidently,” the chairman agreed. 

“Admirable. Sesoi the Great, will you be so kind?” 

“ ’Tain’t nothin’ at all,” said the giant leisurely. 

He went close to the door, shook it cautiously with his 
hand, took out of his pocket a small bright instrument, bent 
down to the keyhole, made some almost imperceptible move¬ 
ments with the tool, suddenly straightened and flung the 
door wide in silence. The chairman had his watch in his 
hands. The whole affair took only ten seconds. 

“Thank you, Sesoi the Great,” said the gentleman in the 
sandy suit politely. “You may go back to your seat.” 

But the chairman interrupted in some alarm: “Excuse 
me. This is all very interesting and instructive, but . . . 
is it included in your esteemed colleague’s profession to be 
able to lock the door again?” 

“Ah, mille pardons ” The gentleman bowed hurriedly. “It 
slipped my mind. Sesoi the Great, would you oblige?” 

The door was locked with the same adroitness and the 
same silence. The esteemed colleague waddled back to his 
friends, grinning. 

“Now I will have the honour to show you the skill of 
one of our comrades who is in the line of picking pockets 
in theatres and railway-stations,” continued the orator. “He 
is still very young, but you may to some extent judge from 
the delicacy of his present work of the heights he will attain 
by diligence. Yasha!” A swarthy youth in a blue silk 
blouse and long glace boots, like a gipsy, came forward with 




THE OUTRAGE—A TRUE STORY 


253 


a swagger, fingering the tassels of his belt, and merrily 
screwing up his big, impudent black eyes with yellow whites. 

“Gentlemen,” said the gentleman in the sandy suit per¬ 
suasively, “I must ask if one of you would be kind enough 
to submit himself to a little experiment. I assure you this 
will be an exhibition only, just a game.” 

He looked round over the seated company. 

The short plump Karaite, black as a beetle, came forward 
from his table. 

“At your service,” he said amusedly. 

“Yasha!” The orator signed with his head. 

Yasha came close to the solicitor. On his left arm, which 
was bent, hung a bright-coloured, figured scarf. 

“Suppose yer in church or at the bar in one of the halls, 
—or watchin’ a circus,” he began in a sugary, fluent voice. 
“I see straight off—there’s a toff. . . . Excuse me, sir. Sup¬ 
pose you’re the toff. There’s no offence—just means a rich 
gent, decent enough, but don’t know his way about. First— 
what’s he likely to have about ’im? All sorts. Mostly, a 
ticker and a chain. Whereabouts does he keep ’em? Some¬ 
where in his top vest pocket—here. Others have ’em in the 
bottom pocket. Just here. Purse—most always in the 
trousers, except when a greeny keeps it in his jacket. Cigar- 
case. Have a look first what it is—gold, silver—with a mon¬ 
ogram. Leather—what decent man’d soil his hands? Cigar- 
case. Seven pockets: here, here, here, up there, there, here 
and here again. That’s right, ain’t it? That’s how you 
go to work.” 

As he spoke the young man smiled. His eyes shone 
straight into the barrister’s. With a quick, dexterous move¬ 
ment of his right hand he pointed to various portions of his 
clothes. 

“Then again you might see a pin here in the tie. However 
we do not appropriate. Such gents nowadays—they hardly 
ever wear a real stone. Then I comes up to him. I begin 
straight off to talk to him like a gent: ‘Sir, would you be 
so kind as to give me a light from your cigarette’—or some¬ 
thing of the sort. At any rate, I enter into conversation. 
What’s next? I look him straight in the peepers, just like 
this. Only two of me fingers are at it—just this and this.” 


254 


BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 


Yasha lifted two fingers of his right hand on a level with 
the solicitor’s face, the forefinger and the middle finger and 
moved them about. 

“D’ you see? With these two fingers I run over the 
whole pianner. Nothin’ wonderful in it: one, two, three— 
ready. Any man who wasn’t stupid could learn easily. 
That’s all it is. Most ordinary business. I thank you.” 

The pickpocket swung on his heel as if to return to his 
seat. 

“Yasha!” The gentleman in the sandy suit said with 
meaning weight. “Yasha!” he repeated sternly. 

Yasha stopped. His back was turned to the barrister, but 
he evidently gave his representative an imploring look, be¬ 
cause the latter frowned and shook his head. 

“Yasha!” he said for the third time, in a threatening 
tone. 

“Huh!” The young thief grunted in vexation and turned 
to face the solicitor. “Where’s your little watch, sir?” he 
said in a piping voice. 

“Oh!” the Karaite brought himself up sharp. 

“You see—now you say ‘Oh!’” Yasha continued re¬ 
proachfully. “All the while you were admiring me right 
hand, I was operatin’ yer watch with my left. Just with 
these two little fingers, under the scarf. That’s why we 
carry a scarf. Since your chain’s not worth anything—a 
present from some mamselle and the watch is a gold one, 
I’ve left you the chain as a keepsake. Take it,” he added 
with a sigh, holding out the watch. 

“But . . . That is clever,” the barrister said in confusion. 
“I didn’t notice it at all.” 

“That’s our business,” Yasha said with pride. 

He swaggered back to his comrades. Meantime the orator 
took a drink from his glass and continued. 

“Now, gentlemen, our next collaborator will give you an 
exhibition of some ordinary card tricks, which are worked 
at fairs, on steamboats and railways. With three cards, for 
instance, an ace, a queen, and a six, he can quite easily. 
. . . But perhaps you are tired of these demonstrations, 
gentlemen.” . . . 

“Not at all. It’s extremely interesting,” the chairman an- 



THE OUTRAGE—A TRUE STORY 


255 

swered affably. “I should like to ask one question—that is 
if it is not too indiscreet—what is your own specialty?” 

. “Mine . . . H’m. . . . No, how could it be an indiscre¬ 
tion? ... I work the big diamond shops . . . and my other 
business is banks,” answered the orator with a modest smile. 
“Don’t think this occupation is easier than others. Enough 
that I know four European languages, German, French, Eng¬ 
lish, and Italian, not to mention Polish, Ukrainian and 
Yiddish. But shall I show you some more experiments, Mr. 
Chairman?” 

The chairman looked at his watch. 

“Unfortunately the time is too short,” he said. “Wouldn’t 
it be better to pass on to the substance of your business? 
Besides, the experiments we have just seen have amply con¬ 
vinced us of the talent of your esteemed associates. . . . 
Am I not right, Isaac Abramovich?” 

“Yes, yes . . . absolutely,” the Karaite barrister readily 
confirmed. 

“Admirable,” the gentleman in the sandy suit kindly 
agreed. “My dear Count”—he turned to a blond, curly- 
haired man, with a face like a billiard-maker on a bank- 
holiday—“put your instruments away. They will not be 
wanted. I have only a few words more to say, gentlemen. 
Now that you have convinced yourselves that our art, al¬ 
though it does not enjoy the patronage of high-placed in¬ 
dividuals, is nevertheless an art; and you have probably 
come to my opinion that this art is one which demands 
many personal qualities besides constant labour, danger, and 
unpleasant misunderstandings—you will also, I hope, be¬ 
lieve that it is possible to become attached to its practice 
and to love and esteem it, however strange that may appear 
at first sight. Picture to yourselves that a famous poet of 
talent, whose tales and poems adorn the pages of our best 
magazines, is suddenly offered the chance of writing verses 
at a penny a line, signed into the bargain, as an advertise¬ 
ment for ‘Cigarettes Jasmine’—or that a slander was spread 
about one of you distinguished barristers, accusing you of 
making a business of concocting evidence for divorce cases, 
or of writing petitions from the cabmen to the governor in 
public-houses! Certainly your relatives, friends and ac- 


256 


BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 


quaintances wouldn’t believe it. But the rumour has already 
done its poisonous work, and you have to live through 
minutes of torture. Now picture to yourselves that such a 
disgraceful and vexatious slander, started by God knows 
whom, begins to threaten not only your good name and 
your quiet digestion, but your freedom, your health, and 
even your life! 

“This is the position of us thieves, now being slandered 
by the newspapers. I must explain. There is in existence 
a class of scum— passez-moi le mot —whom we call their 
‘Mothers’ Darlings.’ With these we are unfortunately con¬ 
fused. They have neither shame nor conscience, a dissi¬ 
pated riff-raff, mothers’ useless darlings, idle, clumsy drones, 
shop assistants who commit unskilful thefts. He thinks 
nothing of living on his mistress, a prostitute, like the male 
mackerel, who always swims after the female and lives on 
her excrements. He is capable of robbing a child with 
violence in a dark alley, in order to get a penny; he will 
kill a man in his sleep and torture an old woman. These 
men are the pests of our profession. For them the beauties 
and the traditions of the art have no existence. They watch 
us real, talented thieves like a pack of jackals after a lion. 
Suppose I’ve managed to bring off an important job—we 
won’t mention the fact that I have to leave two-thirds of 
what I get to the receivers who sell the goods and discount 
the notes, or the customary subsidies to our incorruptible 
police—I still have to share out something to each one of 
these parasites, who have got wind of my job, by accident, 
hearsay, or a casual glance. 

“So we call them Motients, which means ‘half,’ a corrup¬ 
tion of moitte . . . Original etymology. I pay him only be¬ 
cause he knows and may inform against me. And it mostly 
happens that even when he’s got his share he runs off to 
the police in order to get another dollar. We, honest 
thieves. ... Yes, you may laugh, gentlemen, but I repeat 
it: we honest thieves detest these reptiles. We have another 
name for them, a stigma of ignominy; but I dare not utter 
it here out of respect for the place and for my audience. 
Oh, yes, they would gladly accept an invitation to a pogrom. 
The thought that we may be confused with them is a hun- 



THE OUTRAGE—A TRUE STORY 


257 

dred times more insulting to us even than the accusation of 
taking part in a pogrom. 

“Gentlemen! While I have been speaking I have often 
noticed smiles on your faces. I understand you. Our 
presence here, our application for your assistance, and above 
all the unexpectedness of such a phenomenon as a systematic 
organisation of thieves, with delegates who are thieves, and 
a leader of the deputation, also a thief by profession—it is 
all so original that it must inevitably arouse a smile. But 
now I will speak from the depth of my heart. Let us be rid 
of our outward wrappings, gentlemen, let us speak as men to 
men. 

“Almost all of us are educated, and all love books. We 
don’t only read the adventures of Roqueambole, as the real¬ 
istic writers say of us. Do you think our hearts did not 
bleed and our cheeks did not burn from shame, as though we 
had been slapped in the face, all the time that this unfor¬ 
tunate, disgraceful, accursed, cowardly war lasted. Do you 
really think that our souls do not flame with anger when 
our country is lashed with Cossack-whips, and trodden un¬ 
der foot, shot and spit at by mad, exasperated men? Will 
you not believe that we thieves meet every step towards the 
liberation to come with a thrill of ecstasy? 

“We understand, every one of us—perhaps only a little 
less than you barristers, gentlemen—the real sense of the 
pogroms. Every time that some dastardly event or some 
ignominious failure has occurred, after executing a martyr 
in a dark corner of a fortress, or after deceiving public con¬ 
fidence, some one who is hidden and unapproachable gets 
frightened of the people’s anger and diverts its vicious ele¬ 
ment upon the heads of innocent Jews. Whose diabolical 
mind invents these pogroms—these titanic blood-lettings, 
these cannibal amusements for the dark, bestial souls? 

“We all see with certain clearness that the last convul¬ 
sions of the bureaucracy are at hand. Forgive me if I 
present it imaginatively. There was a people that had a 
chief temple, wherein dwelt a bloodthirsty deity, behind a 
curtain, guarded by priests. Once fearless hands tore the 
curtain away. Then all the people saw, instead of a god, 
a huge, shaggy, voracious spider, like a loathsome cuttlefish. 


258 BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 

They beat it and shoot at it: it is dismembered already; but 
still in the frenzy of its final agony it stretches over all the 
ancient temple its disgusting, clawing tentacles. And the 
priests, themselves under sentence of death, push into the 
monster’s grasp all whom they can seize in their terrified, 
trembling fingers. 

“Forgive me. What I have said is probably wild and 
incoherent. But I am somewhat agitated. Forgive me. I 
continue. We thieves by profession know better than any 
one else how these pogroms were organised. We wander 
everywhere: into public houses, markets, tea-shops, doss- 
houses, public places, the harbour. We can swear before 
God and man and posterity that we have seen how the po¬ 
lice organise the massacres, without shame and almost with¬ 
out concealment. We know them all by face, in uniform or 
disguise. They invited many of us to take part; but there 
was none so vile among us as to give even the outward con¬ 
sent that fear might have extorted. 

“You know, of course, how the various strata of Russian 
society behave towards the police? It is not even respected 
by those who avail themselves of its dark services. But 
we despise and hate it three, ten times more—not because 
many of us have been tortured in the detective departments, 
which are just chambers of horror, beaten almost to death, 
beaten with whips of ox-hide and of rubber in order to extort 
a confession or to make us betray a comrade. Yes, we hate 
them for that too. But we thieves, all of us who have been 
in prison, have a mad passion for freedom. Therefore we 
despise our gaolers with all the hatred that a human heart 
can feel. I will speak for myself. I have been tortured 
three times by police detectives till I was half dead. My 
lungs and liver have been shattered. In the mornings I 
spit blood until I can breathe no more. But if I were told 
that I will be spared a fourth flogging only by shaking hands 
with a chief of the detective police, I would refuse to do 
it! 

“And then the newspapers say that we took from these 
hands Judas-money, dripping with human blood. No, gen¬ 
tlemen, it is a slander which stabs our very soul, and in¬ 
flicts insufferable pain. Not money, nor threats, nor prom- 




THE OUTRAGE—A TRUE STORY 


259 

ises will suffice to make us mercenary murderers of our 
brethren, nor accomplices with them.” 

“Never ... No ... No . . his comrades standing 
behind him began to murmur. 

“I will say more,” the thief continued. “Many of us 
protected the victims during this pogrom. Our friend, 
called Sesoi the Great—you have just seen him, gentlemen— 
was then lodging with a Jewish braid-maker on the Molda- 
vanka. With a poker in his hands he defended his landlord 
from a great horde of assassins. It is true, Sesoi the Great 
is a man of enormous physical strength, and this is well 
known to many of the inhabitants of the Moldavanka. But 
you must agree, gentlemen, that in these moments Sesoi 
the Great looked straight into the face of death. Our com¬ 
rade Martin the Miner—this gentleman here”—the orator 
pointed to a pale, bearded man with beautiful eyes who was 
holding himself in the background—“saved an old Jewess, 
whom he had never seen before, who was being pursued by a 
crowd of these canaille. They broke his head with a crow¬ 
bar for his pains, smashed his arm in two places and splin¬ 
tered a rib. He is only just out of hospital. That is the way 
our most ardent and determined members acted. The others 
trembled for anger and wept for their own impotence. 

“None of us will forget the horrors of those bloody days 
and bloody nights lit up by the glare of fires, those sobbing 
women, those little children’s bodies torn to pieces and left 
lying in the street. But for all that not one of us thinks 
that the police and the mob are the real origin of the evil. 
These tiny, stupid, loathsome vermin are only a senseless 
fist that is governed by a vile, calculating mind, moved by a 
diabolical will. 

“Yes, gentlemen,” the orator continued, “we thieves have 
nevertheless merited your legal contempt. But when you, 
noble gentlemen, need the help of clever, brave, obedient 
men at the barricades, men who will be ready to meet death 
with a song and a jest on their lips for the most glorious 
word in the world—Freedom—will you cast us off then and 
order us away because of an inveterate revulsion? Damn 
it all, the first victim in the French Revolution was a pros¬ 
titute. She jumped up on to a barricade, with her skirt 


26 o 


BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES 


caught elegantly up into her hand and called out: ‘Which 
of you soldiers will dare to shoot a woman?’ Yes, by God.” 
The orator exclaimed aloud and brought down his fist on 
to the marble table top: “They killed her, but her action 
was magnificent, and the beauty of her words immortal. 

“If you should drive us away on the great day, we will 
turn to you and say: ‘You spotless Cherubim—if human 
thoughts had the power to wound, kill, and rob man of 
honour and property, then which of you innocent doves 
would not deserve the knout and imprisonment for life?’ 
Then we will go away from you and build our own gay, 
sporting, desperate thieves’ barricade, and will die with such 
united songs on our lips that you will envy us, you who are 
whiter than snow! 

“But I have been once more carried away. Forgive me. 
I am at the end. You now see, gentlemen, what feelings 
the newspaper slanders have excited in us. Believe in our 
sincerity and do what you can to remove the filthy stain 
which has so unjustly been cast upon us. I have finished.” 

He went away from the table and joined his comrades. 
The barristers were whispering in an undertone, very much 
as the magistrates of the bench at sessions. Then the chair¬ 
man rose. 

“We trust you absolutely, and we will make every effort 
to clear your association of this most grievous charge. At 
the same time my colleagues have authorised me, gentle¬ 
men, to convey to you their deep respect for your passion¬ 
ate feelings as citizens., And for my own part I ask the 
leader of the deputation for permission to shake him by the 
hand.” 

The two men, both tall and serious, held each other’s 
hands in a strong, masculine grip. 

The barristers were leaving the theatre; but four of them 
hung back a little beside the clothes rack in the hall. Isaac 
Abramovich could not find his new, smart grey hat any¬ 
where. In its place on the wooden peg hung a cloth cap 
jauntily flattened in on either side. 

“Yasha!” The stern voice of the orator was suddenly 
heard from the other side of the door. “Yasha! It’s the 



THE OUTRAGE—A TRUE STORY 


261 


last time I’ll speak to you, curse you! ... Do you hear?” 

The heavy door opened wide. The gentleman in the 
sandy suit entered. In his hands he held Isaac Abramo¬ 
vich’s hat; on his face was a well-bred smile. 

“ Gentlemen, for Heaven’s sake forgive us—an odd little 
misunderstanding. One of our comrades exchanged his hat 
by accident. . . . Oh, it is yours! A thousand pardons. 
Doorkeeper! Why don’t you keep an eye on things, my 
good fellow, eh? Just give me that cap, there. Once more, 
I ask you to forgive me, gentlemen.” 

With a pleasant bow and the same well-bred smile he 
made his way quickly into the street. 






























































































































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